ishq-e-sultaana (akdha ss/ff) - Page 8

Originally posted by: MideOfTheShadow

unfortunately no, but I assure you, an update will come next week on Monday 😄

Then we want a long one!!!

the next chapter has 8k+ words. I hope that suffices 😭🙏🏾

Originally posted by: MideOfTheShadow

the next chapter has 8k+ words. I hope that suffices 😭🙏🏾

Yes yes

Waiting eagerly

Hey mide... I've been away from the forum for longer than I can remember. Thank you for tagging me on every chapter. Read it all in a go, yet it doesn't feel enough. I love this - The entire take on pregnancy... The way their equation beautifully evolves from attraction and physical intimacy to mental intimacy and a sense of comfort and partnership... Wonderful writing, absolutely enjoyed it. I can't wait for Monday to come! I don't think I've ever heard myself saying this before lol

hi Vaaridhi, it is nice to have you back. I hope all is going great with you. I am glad you loved the chapters through and I look forward to reading your feedback in the coming chapters 😄💜

words like sparrows (💖🕌🛕)

the harem has always been known as a hub of gossip, a place where rumours spread like wildfire. the rumours of someone in the harem being pregnant reach Ruqaiya's hojra, and it opens up unhealed wounds

content/trigger warning: mentions of induced miscarriages, forced abortions, violent death and blood which may be borderline graphic. readers' discretion is advised for this chapter.

It started with whispers from one bandhi's lips to another's ears. Murmurs filled the South Wing of the zenana as information, like power, was exchanged from one hand to the other.

Then, what was localized to just a corner in the South Wing now spread over to the North Wing, dominating the atmosphere of the zenana.

"Someone is with child," they whispered, and like vultures catching a whiff of a dying corpse, their eyes flew about, circling for any sign that might seem out of place amongst each other.

The harem grew even more vigilant, their eyes on every begum, every concubine, every bandhi as if it were a routine security check.

They kept track of every unusual shuffle, their eyes checking for the slightest sign of pallor on their fellow woman's face. Anyone who held her hand to her mouth with a retch was immediately written down in the harem's burn book as the suspected expectant mother.

However, for some reason, the identity of who she might be remained a mystery as if someone was actively working to keep this a concealed matter.

The ladies noted no visible change in their diet; every visit made by the hakim was not due to any peculiar change, but instead because the seasons were transitioning from the monsoon season to the dry, biting winter winds.

Not even a change in gait or abdomen size because, of course, the nosy harem consisted of busybodies who were unpaid part-time womb watchers tracking any slight change in belly sizes.

"Do you think it's Begum Tahira? She's been picky with the biryani, don't you think, Begum Nazeema?" Begum Ruksaar stared pointedly at the Begum in question, her kohl-lined eyes hyper-focused on her and her abdomen in particular, which made Begum Nazeema tsk.

"It can't possibly be Begum Tahira, I overheard from Afsana that she is bleeding. It could explain her pickiness," Nazeema waved, immediately dismissing that possibility.

"Tch. Then Litara?"

Nazeema scoffed, her eyebrows almost rising and disappearing into her dupatta, her eyes settling on the woman pointed out by her companion.

"Litara?!" She almost spat out her sherbet in disbelief as she stared at the concubine in question, who was gifted to the Shehenshah from Bukhara. "When Jahannam freezes, Ruksaar, when Jahannam freezes."

Ruksaar clicked her tongue against her teeth again in frustration.

"Begum Najma? Begum Pinaaz?"

A sneer curled up Nazeema's lip, with her nose wrinkling at the second name like it was some foul-smelling waste of the sort.

"Begum Pinaaz would be fortunate to receive even a sliver of Shehenshah's attention, not to mention having him grace her chamber. Even if she douses herself in the most sweet-smelling perfumes from the Far East and Persia before lighting herself on fire, it will only remain a dream."

A giggle tumbled out of Ruksaar's lips at that, for Pinaaz was not exactly well-received by the women in the zenana, and it had everything to do with her temperament, countenance and attitude.

Ugh, Nazeema could not even imagine a worse option than the arrogant begum who minced about the hallways with her nose up in the air and a look of disdain directed towards everyone who was not her...or the Shehenshah.

You knew it was that bad if even Begum "cold smirks and icy pale brown eyes" Ruqaiya was weary at best and irritated at worst by Pinaaz.

"She'll never be the one, not even in my wildest dreams," Ruksaar added, her palm covering her lips as she reclined against the divan.

"Ya Allah, who could it possibly be then?" She forced out a gust of air from her nostrils as she held her goblet up to her lips, nursing her drink. "Begum Jodha? It would make a lot of sense," she added, glancing at Begum Nazeema, a tone of bitterness peppering her tone.

"I have seen her leave the apothecary with neem and asafoetida," Nazeema shook her head even at the thought of that. "It is not possible. It is unlikely Jodha is the one. Haven't you seen her?"

Rolling her eyes, Ruksaar reclined against the divan, fanning herself with a peacock feather fan. Her mind still whirred with possible candidates.

And so it filtered through the zenana, their morbid curiosity still piqued as a lot of the women became akin to a detective searching for clues.

This would lead to the rumours reaching a certain doorstep of a certain Khaas Begum — Ruqaiya Sultan Begum.

Zan-e-Kalan

Malika-e-Khaas

Shehenshah ki Pehli Begum

Those were all titles the court referred to her as, their flattering tongues slithering like the forked tongue of a cobra, as if they did not mock her behind closed doors while publicly yelling out praises.

Yet, she never faltered.

She looked just as pristine as she was raised to be — henna-dyed hair pulled back into a braided bun, maang tikka placed precisely on her forehead, jhoomer decking the left side while her dupatta hid the rest of her hair.

Nothing stood out of place each time she walked down the hallways and the aisle of Diwan-e-Khaas while her gharara swished with each step she took.

The perfect Ruqaiya Sultan Begum.

The unbreakable Ruqaiya Sultan Begum.

Until the rumours would touch even the four corners of her hojra.

"Someone is with child" were the first words with the misfortune of reaching her eardrums, and Ruqaiya's eyes instantly focused on her bandhis, the same women, Sekinat and Zainab, as they exchanged the zenana's evergreen currency—gossip.

If this day were any typical, her face would have twisted into a deep frown at stumbling upon those two girls gossiping like little parrots bickering.

Instead, this had her gripping the pipe of her hookah as she took in puffs of the tobacco.

"Someone in the harem is with child."

Those words pounded against her skull, mocking her as if to say, "She used to be you".

Because it used to be her.

Once upon a time, she had been that begum, and yes, she was certain that the possible pregnant woman was a begum.

Jahannam would freeze over first before the child of a concubine would ever receive this hype or even inherit the throne. Even if that concubine happens to be Shehenshah's favourite toy, she almost snorted to herself at the thought.

The Mughal Sultanate was ruled by pillars and norms, so was the zenana, its mirroring microcosm.

But yes, she was once that begum, the center of the harem's attention. Every lady and hijra stared at her womb in equal parts awe and equal parts envy as she trudged around with a growing bump.

And now? Now, they looked at her with a blend of pity and disdain, maybe with some gloating that she was knocked down a peg from her pedestal

The reason was a twisted machination of someone who deemed her womb a threat and chose to turn a cradle of life into the weeping wasteland it now was.

Her grip on the hookah pipe tightened, turning her knuckles almost white as she released another puff.

She would not break.

She would not let them see her break.

No, not at all.

I am Ruqaiya Sultan Begum, Shehenshah ki Khaas Begum, Sultanate ki—

The pipe slipped from her fingers, crashing to the floor as her body trembled from the rage.

It is her, isn't it? Begum Jodha Bai, Amer ki Rajkumari, Raja Bharmal ki Beti.

It had to be her. Even if Ruqaiya had no proof to back up her hypothesis, it made a lot of sense to her why it would be that Rajvanshi queen.

She was the one who had Jalal's attention, as if she were his gravitational centre. She was the one whom he sought out behind the pardah during diwan-e-khaas as if he were a compass and she his true North.

It could not be any other person aside from her, Begum Jodha Bai.

Who else would it be? If not her. If not—

A loud sniff ripped through the air as tears slipped through her lashes and rolled down her cheeks. Her fists clutched on so tightly to the silken bedsheets as her rage transitioned to another emotion she had learned to bury from the public — grief.

Grief for an ambition lost.

Grief for blood once lost.

Standing from her bed, she took measured steps to a trunk she had instructed Hoshiyar to leave untouched at the corner of her hojra. It was a plain wooden trunk with simple decorations and a simple latch, which she lifted.

Opening the lid of the velvet-lined trunk resurrected scents that she had hoped to bury deep down in the archives of her memory.

Then, there it was.

A white swaddling cloth embroidered with silver threads — the embroidery left unfinished — was carefully folded and left untouched since that bloody night.

The tears reappeared just as quickly as she held it out, pressing the cloth to her nose and breathing in the scent, as for once, she broke away from the mask she had donned all these past months.

She used to be you.

Ruqaiya shut her eyes tightly, inhaling deeply and suddenly, she was back there.

Back to the night when she had lost everything.

It had started with a cramp and spotting—a mild one which she had dismissed as another harmless sign of pregnancy. She had waved Hoshiyar away, believing it was nothing.

Until it wasn't.

Until a mild cramp escalated into her doubling over and her body feeling like it had been set aflame from the inside out.

Until the mild spotting turned into profuse bleeding.

Until she had yelled out to Hoshiyar to call the hakim.

Until the world was background noise and she had found herself clinging to the edge of consciousness, and the last thing she remembered that night was holding on to Jalal's hand, begging him to save their child. To not let them die.

She hadn't cared if she would survive the aftermath and even now...

"You should have taken me with you, little one," she whispered as she folded the cloth to her chest. "It would have been better if—," she sobbed, her chest heaving as she placed the swaddling cloth on her lap.

The aftermath of that night left her devastated but with a bit of hope that maybe, not all was lost until...

"This was not a natural miscarriage, Shehenshah. Traces of an abortifacient were found — deliberate and at a dose high enough not just to kill the child but to scar the womb." The hakim, Sufiya Gulrukh, had pulled Jalal aside, believing that she would not be within earshot.

But Ruqaiya was close enough to overhear their discussion.

She had been weak, having woken up from a week of unconsciousness, but she had mustered enough courage to stand up, move around and overhear words that would dash her hopes and ambitions to the ground.

"Her womb has been severely damaged, Shehenshah. She will not bear a child again."

Not bear a child again.

She touched her abdomen, feeling the hollow, the emptiness.

So many months passed.

And the world just kept spinning.

And the culprit remained at large, left to carry on because every attempt to apprehend them was met with a dead end.

So, it was labelled a cold case, and the court just carried on as if nothing had happened.

Jalal kept on ruling and overseeing the empire.

The harem moved on the way it always did.

And she? She had no choice but to move on as well.

But she could never move on so cleanly, could she? Because even with the facades she donned as a shield, the ashes remained in her mouth, bitter. But she had learned to smile with those ashes, hadn't she?

She had learned to survive with a plastered smile on her face, to communicate to the court that she was fine. That she remained unbroken until now.

Because now, someone in this harem was with child.

And it was not her.

It is her.

Begum Jodha Bai.

For whom else did she expect it to be if not her?

She had overheard the gossip of a certain begum leaving his khaas mahal.

Not even I, his Zan-e-Kalan, have been granted such luxury of spending even a single night there.

But here he was, letting his seed take root in another woman's womb. Especially that woman. The woman who never sought his attention but got it anyway.

Fate, the cruel mistress you are, she smiled bitterly.

The sound of hesitant footsteps filled her ears, and with the heel of her palm, Ruqaiya wiped away the tears, potentially smudging her meticulously applied kajal. Her fists tightened on the swaddling cloth as she adjusted her posture.

"Huzoor."

It was Hoshiyar, the eunuch's steps were cautious as he stepped closer.

Turning slightly, she smiled again, this smile slightly more plastic.

"Should I prepare the baths for you, Begum Sahiba?"

The last thing on her mind was a dip in the warm waters of her hammam. No, she wanted—needed—answers, and she would get them in one way or the other.

"Nahi, Hoshiyar," she replied, her voice steady as if she had not spent the past few minutes in tears. Neatly folding the swaddling cloth, she returned it to the trunk. "I have an important task for you, and I need you to accomplish it with full discretion."

"Ji, Huzoor," he stepped even closer.

Shutting the trunk, Ruqaiya stood to her height before turning to face Hoshiyar. The hijra held his hand to his forehead, a greeting in taslim which she acknowledged with a nod.

"You must have heard the rumours, I assume?" The brief moment of silence was enough confirmation for her, but she continued anyway. "Find out who she is. Leave no stone unturned, keep your eyes sharp like a falcon's and keep note of every deviation. Whoever she is, I need to know."

Wordlessly, Hoshiyar nodded before taking his leave.

Exhaling what felt like a burden, Ruqaiya clenched her jaw, her usually cold eyes now burning.

This was not about Jodha.

Not yet.

This was about the justice delayed for both her and the child, who was cruelly denied.

That and the war left unfinished, the grief left unresolved.

even the whispers of the harem reach the doorsteps of an ancient serpent, but the ancient serpent can no longer utilize the same strategies that may have previously struck fear into the bones of brave men.

"Someone is with child, Wazir-e-Aliya."

Resham had rushed in, clutching his dupatta closely, his eyes wandering about as if in hypervigilance for anyone who might overhear his discussion with his mistress.

One could never know these days with the way the walls grew ears and words filtered through like water filtering through a sieve.

Just that piece of information was enough to snap Maham into the present, a twisted grin on her face as she slowly turned to look at her khwaja sira.

"With child, you say?" She leaned back against her divan, purring like a cat that got a bowl of cream as ideas took root in the deep crevices of her mind.

Her fingers, still steady, traced the edge of her paan box, the grin not leaving her face for even a second.

There was something about living within the harem that had the Wazir-e-Aliya ever poised for action, and one of them was how information flew about, creating an abundance of weaponry in her arsenal.

A child, Resham had announced.

Someone's womb had taken root, and while one might dismiss this as idle rumours made up by bored begums and bandhis to pass time, there was no smoke without a fire hidden somewhere, and now, Maham was willing to track down this fire to its root.

Who could be the woman walking around with a blooming womb? And what actions did Maham need to take to ensure she smothered that light before it had any chance to shine upon the Sultanate?

For a woman like Maham, power was like a heady liquor—once tasted, it was not a vice you could easily abstain from, especially for a woman who rose from being a lowly bandhi to being the Wazir-e-Aliya.

Which was why she needed to eliminate the threat standing between her and her need to cling to power. And this child—rumoured to exist—stood between her and her ambitions.

A new power was gestating, literally and figuratively.

It had been long since she tasted power—real power—that could come from being associated with the Shehenshah.

She might have gotten older over the years, her fangs dulled, her venom now unused, but she was still Maham Anga.

Still the woman chosen by the empire to groom its waris.

Still the woman who had nursed Jalal, raised him like he were her own, and protected him while Hamida Bano Begum abandoned him for the empire.

Still the woman who looked upon the then-boy king, a note of pride on her face as she applauded him receiving the crown and taking his seat on the takht.

She was that woman. Still that woman.

But the rumours of a potential heir stood as a stumbling block, and she was poised to uproot that seedling before it could ever grow into something stronger.

So, she looked up at Resham, her voice deceptively soft and calm as she asked him, "Are you certain of this?"

Shaking his head, Resham answered, "Ji, Huzoor. I will not bring this to you if it is unsubstantiated. The harem is ablaze with whispers. No name has been released, but..."

Her eyes narrowed at the hesitation as she leaned forward, calculated curiosity taking over.

"But what, Resham?"

Clearing his throat, his eyes still glancing around, the eunuch continued, "They report the absence of the hakim, Sufiya Bibi, from the royal dispensary on certain days and..."

Maham raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at the news. That sounded suspicious on its own, but she needed more proof aside from that.

This was a transitional period from the flooding monsoons to the cracking winter in Agra, but also...

"Any idea who the expectant begum might be?"

For it could not be a concubine.

It would never be a concubine unless the Sultanate was particularly desperate to continue its legacy, that they'd choose the son of a concubine as its heir.

But Maham had this sense of certainty that it was not a concubine.

"She is from the North Wing, Huzoor," Resham quickly chimed in. "Even the Shehenshah has been found frequently visiting with restlessness on his face."

A low chuckle escaped her lungs as she let out a slow, thoughtful hum.

"Love always makes the heart grow restless," she muttered bitterly, her eyes flashing with something nefarious.

Oh, Jalal...haven't I taught you enough?

Her face creased into a deep frown as her feet shuffled, rising from her position on the divan and pacing about with her payal jiggling behind her.

She had raised him to never feel, never fall, never love.

But here he was, breaking the rules she had drummed into his brain since his formative years.

"It has to be her."

"Kaun, Huzoor?" Resham paused, his hand to his chest, prompting Maham to face him again.

She stood quietly, her eyes narrowed intently as she paced.

Who else would it be if it wasn't—?

"Who do you think it might be?" She asked instead, a vicious grin on her face as she turned the question like a dart right back on Resham, whose eyebrows furrowed as if deep in thought.

"Begum Ruqaiya?"

Maham could not even help the derisive chuckle she burst into, her bejewelled fingers pressed to her abdomen while the ones on her other hand flew to her face as if to dab at invisible tears.

"Begum Ruqaiya? Her womb is as empty as a desert, Resham," she pointed out so cruelly that the eunuch's face faltered, his eyes twitching and his grip on his dupatta tightening. "Even if the skies open and Allah steps down Himself to present miracles, she'd never bear a child."

Because I made sure of it, she nearly added.

The dose of the abortifacient she had used to make sure of that was potent enough to not only kill the child but also to burn the womb in a way that it would not carry a fruit.

Uproot the seedling and salt the earth.

And she had done that to totally eliminate the threat of Ruqaiya climbing the political ladder and potentially replacing her.

"It is not Begum Ruqaiya. Think harder, you fool," she sneered.

Bowing his head in apology, Resham continued listing several more options.

Until...

"Begum Jodha, Huzoor."

Like a tutor preening with a sense of pride at her student, Maham smiled and clapped, mockery lining every gesture like gold threads on black silk fabric.

For, of course, it would be her.

Who else but her?

It made perfect sense because Maham had heard rumours. Whispers from the bandhis — they were never discreet — as they'd narrate tales of who visited whom and ya Allah did she hear details that she wished she could unhear.

Details of how he'd bring that abominable Rajvanshi into his khaas mahal — a space that not even Ruqaiya's toes would graze — and how he'd even lower himself by frequenting her hojra like he was a pilgrim.

It did not take divine wisdom to figure out what transpired within those four walls, and if that had Jodha's womb yielding the sultanate's future...

Even Maham shuddered at the thought.

A new world order, ya Allah.

She could already see it, and she dreaded it.

A child born of Islam and Sanatan Dharma.

A child raised between namaz and puja.

A royal nursery echoing with bhajans and qawwalis.

Allah and some Hindu devta on opposite sides of a coin.

A crowned Mughal prince answering to both Mughal and Rajput names.

Ya Allah, she repeated, her temples already blooming with migraine.

Because that Rajvanshi woman was the potential Mariam-uz-Zamani.

Words could not even describe her disdain for Begum Jodha Bai.

If Jalal had used his imperial power to force her conversion, perhaps Maham might have tolerated her existence within this space. But no, he just had to bend the knee.

Because instead of azaans, Jodha Bai sang shlokas in Sanskrit. Instead of namaz five times a day, she conducted puja. Instead of fusing into the Mughal system, she wore her Rajvanshi colours and attire with pride and defiance.

And now, she was the potential mother-to-be...

Still pacing, Maham frowned, her eyes still narrowed in contemplation.

I have to put an end to this.

But how?

How could she without drawing attention to herself?

Because now, her old methods no longer worked. They stood no chance now.

Because if Jodha Bai was the expectant begum, then it meant Jalal was watching like a tiger over his mate and cub—vicious, obsessive and dangerous.

And Maham? She feared that tiger. Feared what he'd become.

Because she had sown his rage, nurtured it into cruelty, in fact.

And now, if she made the wrong move and he deemed her a threat to that Rajvanshi woman and his child, that rage would turn on her.

She had seen that rage manifest multiple times.

She saw how he weaponized his cruelty in that one incident when he'd sat on his takht watching stoically as Subehdar Sharifuddin's head was trampled upon by an elephant for assaulting Bakshi Bano Begum.

If Jalal could do that to his brother-in-law for abusing his behen, then it meant that not even she—his Badi Ammi—was safe at all.

No, she had to be careful and watchful. And she knew which place to visit first.

If you asked the harem who they thought Hoshiyar Khan was, you'd get different answers.

The eunuch who would gather the bandhis to share the latest stories within the zenana, or scraps of information retrieved from outside.

The hijra who towered over Ruqaiya Sultan Begum as if he were her shadow and enforcer.

Answers that were quite correct but still missed the mark.

If you asked Hoshiyar himself who he was, he could not even give a straight answer. Who cared about a eunuch or what he was?

No one.

No one until Ruqaiya Sultan Begum.

The first memory he had of her was back in Kabul. It all started in Kabul.

After all, even a lowly eunuch had his origins, didn't he?

He had no memories of his father, and his mother, Setareh, was a bandhi purchased from Persia to serve in a fractured Mughal court in Kabul.

Perhaps his father had passed away before his birth, or the man had abandoned his ammi upon seeing the condition of what he had believed to be his son at birth and labelled him defective; it was all left to ambiguity.

Setareh never told him who his father was, and Hoshiyar did not care to ask. Perhaps it was all for the best.

After all, why should he bother his head over a figure that never existed? Why do that when the woman who stayed nurtured him and treated him like he was already whole?

Even now, Hoshiyar adjusted his nath in memory, one of the few heirlooms he could retain from his ammi.

She raised him with stories and poems in Farsi and broken Pashto because to her, he was her son, whole and perfect, even if the world stated otherwise.

But what was fate if not a cruel, vicious entity that took Setareh out of this world with an illness that would render her too weak to protect him from the world's cruelty?

Events from then to when he'd first meet Ruqaiya blurred that even if you held a diya, you'd meet a white blanket of fog.

But he did remember vividly the sounds of Mubarak ho, the smell of sweet rose attar, and the colourful engagement joda Ruqaiya donned.

That Ruqaiya differed greatly from the present Ruqaiya the harem and the court knew.

That Ruqaiya had been full of light, her pearly whites gleaming in joy at the thought of marrying her childhood friend.

That Ruqaiya was the first person, after his ammi, who saw him and still did as a person.

He'd not call his relationship with her a friendship on an equal basis given the power imbalance, but they did form a bond.

A bond where they exchanged information and secrets, some of which not even the Shehenshah himself was privy to. That was how strong that bond was.

And Hoshiyar had watched through the years from the engagement to the wedding years later. He could still remember that excitement in her voice as she said "qubool hai" thrice with that damn smile on her face.

And Hoshiyar had also stood as a witness as Ruqaiya grew teeth and lost some of that childhood innocence, but never that light. Never that hope. The hope that she'd give Shehenshah his first child. The hope that she'd be Mariam-uz-Zamani.

He had witnessed it all.

From the prayers, to the pilgrimages to every dargah in the empire, to the fertility tonics and oils, to the visits from the hakims.

He'd seen the way her face dropped when the hakim concluded the check-up with a "Ba adab arz hai, but you're not with child, Begum Sahiba."

He had noticed the disappointment at every fabric that bloomed with spots of rich red blood, each spot a taunt that her body had failed her.

Then, he had noticed the joy that would finally visit her doorsteps. That evening, she had fainted after maghrib, and he had stepped in, yelling at one of the bandhis to call the hakim.

Old, respected Khawla "Bibi" Banu had walked in, just around the same time Ruqaiya came to, and had gotten to work.

Two fingers pressed on the wrist, and then a wide smile on her face as she said those words Ruqaiya had prayed to hear.

"Mubarak ho, Begum Sahiba, you are with child!"

He had witnessed the light dawn upon that hojra as Ruqaiya gifted Khawla Bibi her jewelry in appreciation. He had been there when she broke the good news to Shehenshah. He had stood behind her as she announced the news to the harem in her excitement, and perhaps that mistake had proven her undoing after all.

But could he blame a woman who had prayed and fasted for years for having a bit of a loose tongue out of her excitement and joy?

Could he dim the glow on her face as she preened before the mirror? The one thing that was unusual for the woman who believed in minimalism because her intellect spoke louder than her beauty.

"I am staring at the future Mariam uz Zamani." That smirk had floated on her soft rose-painted lips as she tilted her chin in pride.

And maybe, initially, it had been purely for the fact that her ambition of being the ultimate powerful woman in the sultanate was one step closer to being fulfilled.

But along the way, she had grown to love that child because they were hers.

Hoshiyar had watched how she'd stare down at her still-flat abdomen, eagerly checking for any slight change in size.

He had listened to her sing lullabies in Farsi and Pashto. He'd even read some Urdu stories to lull both her and her child to sleep.

And when that bump started to show, he would watch her stroke it tenderly. It was then she'd ordered baby clothes made in brocade and silk, shawls made from muslin and soft linen. She had even ordered a cradle and started embroidering a swaddle cloth.

Then, that night came.

The night that would devastate Ruqaiya and kill off that light in her eyes.

And it had started with a wince of pain which he had caught and slight spotting. Khuda knew he had almost made a trip to the hakim until Ruqaiya dismissed it as just a sign of pregnancy.

Even now, he wished he had insisted. Maybe if he did, maybe if he had gone regardless, the sound of screams that would wake up the entire harem that night would not haunt him.

Maybe the sight of blood staining the white carpets, the sight of her phasing in and out of consciousness as Sufiya worked to save the child, would not plague his dreams.

Maybe he'd not still be praying to Allah to burn out that image of the charred fetus from his mind.

But it was too late for regrets, for maybes, for what-ifs, because now, the child was gone, and Ruqaiya's hopes were permanently dashed to the ground.

Whoever the culprit was, they had coldly and cleanly executed the task in a way that even if she tried again, it would all be in vain.

And justice?

What a joke.

Even the mention of that word was f*cking laughable. Every lead Shehenshah and Abdul could latch on to all turned out to be dead ends.

The bandhi, Uzma, who had served Ruqaiya's meals that night? She was found dead with her body bloated in the baoli, which was immediately closed off.

Cause of death? Suicide.

Apparently.

Because her fellow bandhis had described Uzma as a girl full of life.

The palace cook, Ahmed, had his corpse disfigured in a way that the only thing that made him recognizable was the taweez he wrapped around his right wrist.

And those were the two major ones Shehenshah and Abdul could find because the other witnesses disappeared under mysterious circumstances.

And thus, the case was labelled cold and therefore closed.

That was the moment Hoshiyar officially witnessed the death of that nine-year-old girl whose eyes had brightened at the fact that she was marrying him, her childhood friend and Mirza-turned-Shehenshah.

The world had moved on; her properties moved to a new hojra as Shehenshah had deemed it cruel to let her continue to stay within the space where she had lost her child.

Oh, if only it were as simple as simply changing quarters, because it would never erase the fact that Ruqaiya had lost a part of herself.

And worse? The world expected her to move on as well. So, she did.

She went back to duty, a smile on her face as she donned the facade of perfection to prove to the zenana and the court that she was unbreakable and they'd never see her fall.

And it was very believable, even for Hoshiyar, who had trained himself to always be alert.

Until he happened to witness her sob into that swaddle cloth as she knelt before that wooden trunk, which contained items meant for a child that never came.

That trunk was so precious to Ruqaiya that she had stopped him from burning it along with its contents.

"Leave it," she had said, holding out her hand, her voice soft but hardened with unresolved grief. So Hoshiyar had left it alone.

Now, he witnessed her kneel before that box like it was a mausoleum until she noticed his presence, and that mask was back on.

"Find out who she is. Leave no stone unturned, keep your eyes sharp like a falcon's and keep note of every deviation. Whoever she is, I need to know."

She had dispatched him like a falcon on a little mouse, and he was ready to take off on his duty.

Perhaps this was an advantage of his status as a khwaja sira—the fact that the world already underestimated you? Oh, that made the information even more available to access.

So, he started at the place where rumours were very likely to brew — the South Wing, where the bandhis and his fellow eunuchs converged to share old wives' tales and gossip.

It gave him an idea of what place to start from, at least, because for a rumour to originate and spread to the rest of the zenana, someone had to notice at least one thing and who else, if not for the bandhis and eunuchs, would be privy to what went on within their mistress' abode?

However, Hoshiyar was not interested in gossip. No, he needed patterns, and he needed to keep an eye on them.

Patterns like who left her hojra less frequently.

Patterns like whose laundry showed up with bloodless underclothes, and if there was bleeding, what form did it take?

Patterns like who was suddenly avoiding certain spices, attars and fragrances.

Patterns like whose hojra was frequently visited by the hakim in a way that could not be logically attributed to the current transition in seasons.

With a satisfied smile on his face, Hoshiyar straightened his back as he made his way down to the South Wing.

The mission begins.

There was something poetic about the transition between seasons — from the monsoon floods to the biting autumn wind — that not even Sufiya Gulrukh could place a finger on, but it made it even more significant in her eyes.

And for a woman who had been the bridge for many mothers bringing their children into the world, or in unfortunate cases, preparing their small bodies for the grave, Sufiya was ever more aware of the need for silence.

Silence, especially in a cutthroat environment like this. Especially in an environment where a child signified rebellion against the old order.

She understood all too well, for once upon a time, she had been idealistic before slowly grounding herself in reality.

When she had turned 16, her Abbu had taken her to the local dai in Gwalior and Sufiya, bright-eyed, had enthusiastically followed along.

She could still remember the joy of being chosen by Mahreen bint Rafi'a to learn from her the art of bringing life into the world.

And Sufiya, ever ready, had learned.

Her eyes were ever sharp, her ears alert as she learned what brew induced labour and what herbal paste eased dilation. She'd learned what words to say to reassure a new mother and what words to announce the birth of a new life.

She had also learned to live through the times when things went wrong, and instead of birth cries filling the chamber, it was the echoes of complete silence.

Not all labour resulted in good news.

But not even the occasional setbacks could dampen her outlook because being a dai was also about honouring the ones who could not make it out alive.

But her perception soon soured as soon as she started working for royal families.

It was there that Sufiya witnessed just how quickly symbols of life became battlefields where women and children were deemed as disposable.

No regard for the lives involved, all because politics turned what was meant to be sacrosanct into a game of hierarchy and power.

She had been the wide-eyed 21-year-old when the Rajmata of Marwar sent a letter to Mahreen Bibi, requesting she send one of her best students to the palace.

The wife of the Maharaja of Marwar, Rani Rukmini Bai, had swelled with child.

Sufiya fitted the bill, so she had taken the next palki to Marwar with a pep in her step but before leaving, Mahreen Bibi had given a warning — "not everything is what they seem to be". But she had dismissed it back then, only for the warning to be more significant throughout her stay there.

Upon reaching her destination, the face that met Sufiya was not the kind, matronly smile she expected, but instead, a face and hardened brown eyes that communicated shrewdness and something far more chilling that it sent shivers down her spine.

Rani Padmavati, also known as the Rajmata or the queen dowager of Marwar, was everything different from the figure she was named after. Her red-painted lips, pleated pallu and jewellery masked the blackness in her heart, but, most of all, was the cruel precision the old matriarch used in culling pregnancies that did not fit her vision of succession.

Sufiya had not realized that back then, the rot was hidden beneath scents of sandalwood, rosewater and jasmine. All she saw was the honour of being chosen to help bring into the world the next royal generation.

That was until a certain day in the Marwari zenana.

One of the concubines within the harem had mysteriously "fallen ill" — the illness was vague on purpose until Sufiya realized that the woman had suffered a miscarriage.

What worsened the discovery was her finding the remnants of datura ka ark — a herb that in small doses helped in dilation but in large doses killed the unborn and scarred the womb for life.

Her fingers had shaken, and she trembled at the discovery, her eyes meeting the cold eyes of Rajmata Padmavati, who sat without a sign of remorse or repentance.

"It had to be done, dai," Padmavati had said coolly, sipping her cold sherbet. "Just like you have your duty, so do I, and I am to ensure the purity of this kingdom. What do you think would have happened had she given birth around the same time as Rukmini? Do you think I'd have allowed her to bear a son and let a b*stard child vie for succession?"

Sufiya had swallowed at the coldly cruel tone Padmavati had used as if she were merely discussing killing an annoying pest and not a child.

That moment had completely shattered her rose-tinted vision, and Sufiya had left Marwar two moons after Rani Rukmini finally put to bed.

Then, she moved from Marwar to Bundi to Malwa to her hometown, Gwalior.

The same rot was deeply embedded within closed doors. That same rot would, unfortunately, exist within Agra's zenana as well, a discovery she made the night of Begum Ruqaiya's miscarriage.

She should have left Agra after that event; she had contemplated leaving, but something had kept her there for a reason, and it was not her friendship with Mariam Makani.

Maybe you were here for a time such as this.

Time. Season.

Two words which sounded similar but differed so greatly.

A time to speak and a time for silence.

"No word about this must go beyond these four walls," Mariam Makani had instructed her the day she diagnosed Begum Jodha's pregnancy, and Sufiya, with her experience of seeing how pregnancies in royal families could turn into warfare, had kept her lips shut.

Not out of duty.

Not out of fear of the Shehenshah once he had discovered the pregnancy.

Not even out of loyalty to both Mariam Makani and Shehenshah.

But out of the promise she had made to herself: Never again.

She may have failed those women in Marwar, Bundi, Malwa and Gwalior. She might have failed Begum Ruqaiya that night, but may Khuda strike her down if she failed Begum Jodha this time.

Which is why she paused in her steps, her hands covered in pastes smelling of amla and turmeric, as Zuleikha Mahdiyah rushed into her cubicle.

The apprentice was a young woman of twenty years, and with a certain light that reminded Sufiya of her younger self — curious, enthusiastic to learn and ever ready to help.

Oh, what a cruel world that lies ahead for women like us, she smiled, her lips tight as she regarded the younger woman.

"Zuleikha," she set the bowl aside, moving over to a basin to wash off the paste. "What brings you here? Is there a scroll you'll need?"

"Nahi, Sufiya Bibi," Zuleikha shook her head, before turning it a certain angle and returning to face her. "Maham Anga Ji, Wazir-e-Aliya, is here to see you. She requests your presence."

Just like that, Sufiya's face suddenly fell.

Call her paranoid.

Call her mistrustful.

Call her irrationally anxious.

But there was something about that woman that had her skin prickling into goosebumps, as if she knew the woman.

No, not knew her—recognized her.

Was it those gray eyes? Or that deep, feminine voice that commanded power?

She had no idea what it was, but something about Maham Anga reminded her of Rajmata Padmavati. There was something about that Wazir that took her back to that night in Marwar when she was 21 years old, finding that pouch containing datura ka ark.

Nahi, the Wazir-e-Aliya was not Padmavati. Not exactly.

But the air around her was the same.

That damn cold, chilly air that had swept into that room in Marwar when she stared into the Rajmata's soulless dark eyes as she smiled too politely.

"What do you think would have happened had she given birth around the same time as Rukmini?"

Picking up a dry cloth, Sufiya wiped the droplets of water on her hands, straightening her back as she allowed Zuleikha to lead her out to the Wazir-e-Aliya.

And there she was — Maham Anga — draped in austerity with her white attire trailing behind her.

To the plain eyes, Maham looked like the image of modesty with minimal makeup and jewellery. Anyone who happened to stumble upon her would view her as the very image of motherhood in the Sultanate.

Why wouldn't they?

Sufiya knew the stories.

She had heard them, not just from the annals but from Mariam Makani herself.

Maham had stepped in when the empire took Hamida away from her infant son.

So, Sufiya understood the image, and she also understood how much rot an image could conceal. She understood how much evil could hide beneath white silk and linen. She knew how much cunning could hide under simple curiosity because that was the mask Maham currently donned.

The woman had her hand folded behind her back, her face in contemplation as she paced in front of the shelves, which held lakhs of scrolls holding medicinal and medical knowledge in them. Her fingers traced the papers as if making an impression.

Then, like a hawk detecting sudden motion, Maham turned, and Sufiya's breath hitched in recoil, out of something primal and instinctual.

"Asalaam aleikum, Sufiya Bibi," she greeted with a gesture that felt like lip service.

"Walaikum salaam," came the response.

Zuleikha stood behind as a witness between the two older women, her eyes drifting in silence as if aware of the tension in the room.

Khuda, meri madad karo.

Sufiya could only find herself praying as she put on a smile.

"How may I be of help to you, Maham Anga Ji?"

Maham smiled, sharp and cunning, "You have served the harem well for years, Sufiya Bibi. Your work and dedication toward the health of these women have set you apart; it is no wonder they trust you so much."

Flattery.

Sufiya inclined her head regardless.

"Your words honour me, Maham Anga."

Why did you call me out here? She wanted to ask.

"You must be busy these days, so I thought I could come over to watch and observe," Maham crooned, her voice slathered in syrup laced with zeher. "With the seasons changing, there must be a high traffic of certain ailments."

Oh? Oh.

"I have heard certain whispers. Something about someone in the harem being...unwell."

Ah.

Sufiya had to hold herself back from grinning at the realization. She knew where this was going, and if it was going where she thought it was going, she was not giving away any information.

"Some of the women are sensitive to the changing weather, Maham Anga. The cold wind brings with it migraines, fatigue, and nausea. You know how delicate we women can be sometimes during these periods," she responded, not blinking or trembling.

Maham hummed, tilting her head in interest.

"No late-night visit? No change in cycles? Nothing?"

Sufiya did not falter, her eyes hardening as she stood her ground.

"Nothing that would be of concern, Maham Anga. If there was anything worth the trouble, Mariam Makani would be the first to know."

That was when Sufiya noticed the shift, Maham's gray eyes colder than before as she clenched her jaw.

"Very well, then," she stepped back, gracefully. "Khuda hafiz, Sufiya Bibi."

"Khuda hafiz," she replied, watching Maham's figure retreat from the apothecary, and just like that, Zuleikha behind her let out a long sigh of relief.

Turning, Sufiya saw that stare, the thousand-yard stare a soldier held after a campaign on the field, as the apprentice exhaled again.

"That was...unsettling."

So, I am not the only one who saw it?

"She is someone to be wary of, Zuleikha."

And she won't stop here at all...

closing notes; this is gonna be me yapping but...no, I do not intend to make Ruqaiya the vamp or the bad guy. the serial and some fanfic writers have done enough of that and I'm not about to pile up on top of it. nope, not at all. it is a shame the serial didn't touch up on her miscarriage aside from that nonsense (the 'a doppelgänger did it' bs) they gave us just to have Maham get away with murder.

speaking of Maham, oh, she's gonna get her due in a later chapter but damn, she is chilly af and might even be worse than her serial counterpart (don't quote me on this, I may not be sure about how worse she'd be tho). the serial does show that Maham lacks empathy and shows disregard for human rights which fits into the DSM-5 and ICD-11's diagnosis of an individual with antisocial personality disorder (often known as psychopathy). that and that she shows signs of narcissistic personality disorder. now, do these make her evil? no, and I want to heavily emphasize that. what makes her what she is is the actions she carries out. does my diagnosis for her excuse them? no, but they explain them.

on Hoshiyar, I wrote this chapter during the month of June, which is globally recognized as Pride month. now, while the hijra were recognized in Hindu scriptures and South Asian societies, they were not spared from discrimination (and this was before the British colonizers came in). it is very easy to romanticize the pre-colonial era especially for people who were born in post-colonial societies and it is important we are cautious to not dismiss the experiences certain groups may have had with marginalization pre-colonialism. even the serial points out the fact that the eunuchs faced discrimination and Jodha was even seen as crazy for advocating on their behalf.

that being said, Hoshiyar is intersex but assigned male at birth (it is heavily implied in his pov). and I understand that not every individual who identified as hijra was intersex, some were transgender, some identified as being outside the gender binary and some were manmade eunuchs (an unfortunate reality in some harems). Hoshiyar's pov is more or less a love letter to queer people who have unfortunately experienced marginalization at the hands of a society that deemed them as incomplete.

on Sufiya, I wrote her as a mirror for people who have gone into healthcare with wide eyes and out of the genuine need to help people. they went in with the joy at the thought of providing healthcare to people, to communities, even swore the Hippocratic Oath only to witness systemic barriers that treat people not as human beings but as numbers on a board, as mere political tools. Maham Anga and Rajmata Padmavati (and yes, me naming her Padmavati is very deliberate) are proto-fascist symbols of that very system and Sufiya's "Never Again" is an echo of healthcare workers who stare at the eyes of the system while advocating for the people they serve. that being said, Sufiya does not neatly fit into the 'good physician' mold which is unfortunately very realistic for many individuals working in corrupt healthcare systems. that being said, I would like to read what you guys think about this chapter