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 color, 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 if I am intruding,” said he.

She gave him a look. “Sure, 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, my 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,” said she quietly, not looking up, “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 was very still, her fingers rotating the cup with slight movements and her eyes following the pattern. A loose curl fell over her eyes, and they rose to consider him. “Why?”

His eyebrows rose. His fingers interlaced, and he sat back. “Begum Sahiba is the foremost jewel of Hindustan,” said he, with a polite bob of his head. “The empire is in her debt many times over.”

“I see. 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.

He grew quiet. She balanced the cup in her lap and leaning back, removed the bindings of her hair. The last light of the day caught her face, and highlighted the odd-colored patches of skin from her burn wounds.

She closed her eyes, and took another large gulp. The cup shook slightly in her fingers.

“Do you remember his wedding?” said she at length, her voice only slightly unsteady. “Dara’s?”

“Yes,” said he, matter of factly.

She gave a hollow laugh. “I had to get a chinaman all the way here. For the final fireworks.”

He didn’t comment. She opened her eyes.

“It was beautiful though, wasn’t it? Like actual falling stars.”

“It was most intriguing,” said he.

She gave him a long look and then sighed softly, losing her gaze to memory. She emptied the cup again, and started humming softly. He observed her calmly.

“Musicians from Khorasan and Turkey,” she murmured. “Flower blossoms from the Nile.” She smiled. “Seems like such a waste of time now.”

“The celebrations were…memorable,” said he quietly.

“I spent nearly a year,” said she. “A year of my life.”

His lips curled coldly. “I do not recall you spending similar effort on my wedding.”

Her eyes focused, and she looked at him. “Would you have liked something like that, brother?”

He tapped one index finger against the other, smiling. “No, I suppose not.” He shifted slightly, making himself more comfortable. “But then again, such expenditure would only be considered for the would-be emperor, yes?”

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

“It was a statement of grandeur,” said she idly. “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 with father.” He removed his turban and shook his head. “So I suppose it would have continued, had our esteemed brother commanded an army capably…”

She stopped suddenly, 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. He stared at her, her slight frame, her discolored skin. He drew himself up and then nodded slowly. “Yes. I’m sorry. Forgive my discourtesy.”

She didn’t answer, but resumed her steps, and he followed. For a while they walked silently, as the sky lost its inclination for color, and the moon grew visible.

There were rose bushes by the side of their path. She plucked one, blood red, petals cool to the touch, and took a gentle whiff. He observed her contemplatively.

“Why did you favor him so much?” he asked quietly. “All of you. What was so special about him?”

She pressed the rose to her face, her steps slow. “How does it matter now?” said she.

He looked down, at the curled slippers on his feet, beaded and embroidered, at the ground he left behind. “I wish to understand,” said he, and paused. “It’s…not easy for me to ask this.”

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

“People are held accountable for their deeds,” said she. “They are judged on their thoughts and actions. It is necessary, but it is not kind.”

He frowned. “Is that an answer?”

Her voice was wistful as she continued. “Dara was beautiful, you see. An angel. His heart was like the sky. His thoughts were winged. That was his defense from the world. His retreat.”

“It always seemed more a weakness than a strength to me,” said he.

“Perhaps. It was, in a way,” said she. She looked at him, eyes tender. “But it was necessary, wasn’t it? Some way to cope? You were both so young, after all. Mere children.” She crushes the remainder of the rose absently. “I shall never forgive grand-mother for that.”

His voice grew wary, colder. “It was captivity in name only. We were not ill-treated.”

“You were hostages in your own grand-father’s court! It changed everything.” She turned to face him, but he looked away. “When I met you two, when you were released, I was meeting strangers. It was frightening.”

He gave a small laugh, turning on his heels and walking away from her. “Not the angel surely? The other one, then? The devil?” He hung the turban on an errant branch, his movements jerky.

“I’m sorry, my brother,” said she, letting the disfigured rose fall from her fingers, her eyes red-rimmed. “I’m so sorry. I wish it were different. I wish I could have helped you.”

He folded his arms. His face was closed, his eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I needed help?”

She sighed and slowly sat down upon a large root. Her eyes closed tightly. “It was difficult for you. You were always so sad, so melancholy. And nobody helped you.”

“Is that so?” said he, leaning back. “Well I absolve you, if that’s what you wish. You certainly don’t need to waste your tears over me now.”

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 gentle, and sad. “So did you, once upon a time.” She saw him tense.

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

She sat up. “You have a need to be right,” said she steadily. “Always. A need to be perfect. To the extent that everyone else has to be wrong. Everyone else has to be unworthy.”

He continued his examination of the ant trail. One of his fingers rotated a ring he wore on another. His foot tapped on the grass.

The evening call to prayer was heard, echoing across Chandni Chowk, wafting through the garden. His face lifted to the sound.

“Time for you to leave?” said she.

He turned towards her. “But what if that is true?” said he. “What if I am right?” His foot stopped tapping. “We are gifted this birth, do you see? This life of kings. We are given this task, the highest of tasks, and look at what we do. Look at our father. Look at grand-father.”

“They won great victories. They built great things.”

“They were corrupt!” he spat out. “They were frivolous and foolish! Lost in women and wine and their little egos. The great Shah Jahan? The emperor of the world? 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?

“If the rich do not spend, Aurangzeb, the poor cannot earn.”

“If the rich are debauched, they must still answer for their sins before heaven.”

“Why, you must be right of course,” said she dryly.

He grew silent, and slowly paced to and fro. She hugged her knees.

“What will happen to father?” she asked after a while.

"What should happen to him? What does he deserve?"

"You will not kill him," said she, holding out her arm. "Promise me."

He laughed. “I won’t commit patricide, sister. It’s not a burden I wish to carry.”

“Will you let him leave? He can go abroad.”

He shook his head. “You know I can't. It is far too dangerous. His freedom can only be a source of instability. These things can’t be taken lightly.”

She sighed. “Yes. I know.” She smiled weakly. “I felt compelled to try.”

He nodded.

“Where will you restrict him?” asked she.

He shrugged. “Perhaps you will be kind enough to suggest?”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. She wrapped the odhni closer. “Let him see the Taj. It is precious to him.”

“Of course it's precious,” he muttured. “I could have held Balkh with that money.”

"Ahh yes," said she, "and then you would be known as the Conqueror of Badakshan and Balkh, and your glory would be even greater, and that, after all, is what really matters." She shook her head vigorously. "Why don't people understand this? How could this simplicity escape them?"

He raised his hands. "Alright, alright."

"Why do they even bother doing things that won't increase your greatness?"

"Enough!" he snapped. "You can keep him where you want!"

"Alamgir is the fountain of all joy," said she, bowing graciously.

He glared at her. "Why're you doing this? You actually think Dara would have made a better king than me? Even...even now?"

“Who knows?" said she. "People like Dara seldom become kings.”

"I wonder why..." said he with a bitter laugh, carefully seating himself on the grass beside her.

She didn't reply. He interlaced his fingers thoughtfully, and gave her an arched look. “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 again. “Though to be fair, 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 let out a sigh of irritation. Noise from the neighboring market and caravanserai increased, as the evening progressed into its busiest period.

There seemed to be a period of indecision. "Despite your...mistakes, in the past," said he finally," I would like that you remain in the court. You understand it well. Your council will be appreciated.”

Her brow knit in slight surprise. "Will it now..."

He nodded. “I shall bequeath upon you a title. And provide you an appropriate jagir.”

She swayed gently as she considered, her gaze on him. "Murad is dead. Dara is dead...Shuja is gone..."

"It was war," said he tight-lipped. "If I had lost, what would you, and wondrous Dara, and precious Shah Jahan, have done with me?"

Her eyes fell, and she nodded slowly. She fell silent for a while, and he waited. Faint sounds could be heard, of trade and jollity and business.

When she spoke, her voice seemed small.

“Dara had promised…that he would lift the ban…”

His forehead creased. “The ban, sister?”

Her eyes were wide. She looked younger than she was. “The ban on the marriage for princesses of this house…He told me he would discontinue it."

"I see," said he slowly. He gave her a sharp look. She stared back, her eyes dead and hardened, and yet, after so many years, with a strange look of vulnerability.

"Is that why..." He paused. "Why you supported him?"

Her lips tightened, and her eyes grew fierce. "That is an unkind question," she hissed.

"Yes, yes of course," said he hurriedly, shaking his head. "Forgive me please...again."

He became quiet, considering her words, his face unhappy. Her eyes didn't leave his face. He grew troubled. He started to speak then stopped. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he shook his head. “I...I don't think that will be possible."

“I see.”

He looked down, at his twined fingers. He shook his head again. “Yes. I'm very sorry. It's not possible. Especially, I’m afraid, for you." He paused, and gave a helpless expression. "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," said he. "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 deeply, “and a queen amongst women, in beauty and wisdom…”

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

He grunted. “People from our family should hardly have such a romantic view of children.”

“True," said she, staring ahead.

Her knuckles were pale on her knees. Her voice was a whisper.

"It’s unlikely I could have a child now as it is.”

He rose impatiently. "Stop! Stop Begum. This avails nothing."

She fell silent.

He sighed. “It is just one thing out of many things, sister. Solitude is much more conducive to greatness.”

“I have no wish for greatness!” she hissed. She pressed her forehead to her knees, burying her face “I am weary. I am old.”

“Begum Sahiba” said he, shifting to face her, his voice fervent. “things are just beginning. I will remake this land.”

She didn’t reply, nor looked up.

“Who else can I turn to?” said he. “Who else could help me?”

Her shoulders straightened and she raised her face slightly, so her eyes were uncovered. “I shall gladly accept the title Alamgir offers,” she said, her voice flat. “Anything else would be ungracious. But I cannot promise to consider his court a part of my responsibility.”

He grunted impatiently. “Do you still think I can’t do it? Is that it?” He crouched before her, his voice intense. “I tell you I can! I will! I promise this. I will wash away the dross. Everything will be luminous again.”

She smiled coldly. “Illumination, I'm afraid, so inevitably requires fire.”

He stared at her, and she met his eyes. He stood slowly. "That is your answer?"

She nodded. "I have much to think about, much to remember. Much to decide."

He let out an angry sound and stood again. “Fine!” he growled. “Have it your way!”

He glowered at her with his hawk eyes and she matched his gaze calmly. Her face was placid, wearing the composure perhaps of the acceptance of disheartenment. He took a deep intake of breath.

“It is time, I think, that I retired to prayer,” said he.

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 marching strides. The wind grew cooler.

Leaves broke away above her and spiraled to their graves. She lay back and stared at the black sky and the stars.
Slowly she huddled to her side, hugging herself. Her body shook softly. Her sobs couldn’t be heard.