Those Damned Lands

THOSE DAMNED LANDS
AN Anthology
BY
DAASTAN AND FOLKORISTAN

Daastan Publishers
Copyright 2022 Daastan
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or distributed

in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of
the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The moral rights of the writer, illustrator and editor have been asserted.
All rights reserved
ISBN 978-969-696-779-8
Compilation: Rida Ashraf
Editor: Mariam Rizvi
Formatting: Mariam Rizvi
Book cover Design: Komal Salman
Illustrator: Mariyam Ali Khokhar
First Edition 2022
Daastan Printing Solutions
Daastan Publishers, Pakistan
www.daastan.com
Contents
The Queen Blossom................................................................. 1

Arfa Mirza
A Thousand Nights Ago ........................................................ 31
Emaan Ali
Forge of Legend .................................................................... 52
Komal Salman
The Phenomenal Lahore ...................................................... 84
Rida Ashraf
Bay’ah of Altamas .................................................................. 96
Shoaib Hadeed
Fairies of the Lake ................................................................ 120
Rabia Wahid
From Debal to Manora: a tale of valor ................................ 142
Aleena Nadeem
Beyond Where the River Flows ........................................... 162
Zeryab Khan
The Mystical Night Of Marghabab ................................ 183183
Mahik Sohail
A Beautiful Tragedy ............................................................ 209
Mahnoor Adnan
The Queen Blossom
by
Arfa Mirza
The Queen Blossom
She quietly closed the door of his bedchamber and passed

into the veranda where two hulking sentries were sleeping
in a standing position. All these bulk and razor-sharp
weapons and the poor souls could not free themselves from
the grips of slumber, thought Anarkali as she stepped into
the inner courtyard and leaned on a plinth to put on her
shoes.
It was terribly annoying to get out of a warm bed and

walk barefoot on the cold marble floor, but she did not
want to risk making even the slightest sound that might
disturb the Prince’s sleep. Though love had a lot to do with
that, more worrying was the fact that if the Prince woke up
and realized that she was leaving, he would certainly and,
with the most unctuous cajolery, try to stop her and insist
that she should stay till morning.
If it was up to her, she would have given everything to

stay that night and all the nights of her life with her
beloved, but the growing tension between the Prince and
his father, the Padishah Akbar-e-Azam and ever-escalating
palace intrigues suggested that it was better to be discreet
and cautious.
2
Those Damned Lands
Thinking of his handsome face and the way his gaze

explores and suggests, Anarkali sighed unconsciously, “Ah,
Majnu Salim!” and smiled to herself.
“Nadira!” she heard a whisper from somewhere close by

and looked around.
The inner courtyard of the Khwabgah was bathed in post-

midnight moonlight enhanced by the white marble floor
that rendered dim visibility to the surroundings. She
searched across the courtyard in an effort to find the source
of the whisper. She knew who called her, for there was not
a single soul in the palace who knew her by her birth name
other than Mir Ali, the palace scribe and the closest thing
she could call her brother.
“Nadira!” came the whisper again, and now that she was
completely attentive to the sound, Anarkali saw Mir Ali
standing behind the marble colonnade at the far end of the
courtyard.
She walked briskly towards Mir Ali, wondering about his

narrow body structure that enabled him to hide completely
behind the column.
“Mir Ali, what are you doing here?”
“What am I doing? The question is, what are you doing

playing with your life like that?”
“My life isn’t much anyway without Prince Salim’s love.

But you are getting worried for nothing Mir Bhai. I am safe
as long as the Prince is with me.”
3
The Queen Blossom
“And that’s where you’re wrong. The Padishah is

annoyed with Prince Salim’s antics to such an extent that
he’s considering serious measures to take you out of his
way. Salim is his favourite, and perhaps that’s the reason
the Padishah has allowed this to go on between you two for
so long. He thought this was one of Prince’s temporary
infatuations, but the grip you have on him doesn’t seem to
loosen, and the Padishah is not happy about it.”
“Grip…! You think that this is some tactic to keep the

Prince interested in me and churn favours?” Anarkali’s
bangles jingled as she shook her arms in protest.
“It’s not about what I think; I’m not the Padishah. I’m
merely a palace servant who knows things and wants to
save his sister from the dire consequences that await her if
she doesn’t back down.” Mir Ali reached the highest notch
of his whispering.
“What do you know? Tell me, what are they planning for
me? Banishing me to the Darogha quarters or marrying me
off to a slave?” Anarkali scanned Mir Ali’s face with bitter
expressions.
Mir Ali took a step back, evidently surprised at
Anarkali’s ignorance of what she thought would be the
‘dire’ consequences. It took him some time to gather words
that would make her truly understand what the Padishah
meant to do.
“Nadira Begum, the Padishah thinks that if Prince Salim
comes to him one more time to ask for his permission to
4
Those Damned Lands
marry you, he is….” Mir Ali hesitated. “He is… you won’t
see the light of the next dawn.”
The words fell on Anarkali like thunder. She felt
something heavy settle on her chest and expand to her core.
This was the first time she felt vulnerable against the
unfeeling heels of Padisha’s wrath. She always thought
being the favourite of the heir-apparent shielded her from
every mischief that the jealous court members threw at her,
but somehow, she completely discounted the Padishah
himself.
But Anarkali was not one for a weak heart, and neither
did she want to appear as such. A few moments of silence
is all she took to restore her senses.
“Mir Bhai, if Allah can fill the heart of the Prince of

Hindustan with the love of a mere dancing girl, then He
will also keep her safe. My Prince is wise. He will think of
something.”
“Foolish girl! You’re blinded by all his attention, but I

don’t blame you. Imperial favour makes even the mightiest
go mad, so how can a feeble-hearted woman resist it.” Mir
Ali retorted with a mix of pity and disgust.
“Now go to your quarters and pray that nothing drastic

happens. And stay away from the palace for some time.
I’ve warned you. Akbar-e-Azam did not expand the empire
far and wide through Hindustan so his heir could lose his
mind over a courtesan.” Saying this, Mir Ali, in his
5
The Queen Blossom
exasperation, grabbed Anarkali’s arm and pushed her in the

direction of her quarters.
Anarkali staggered to her feet; her bangles and anklets
tinkled unanimously as if to protest. Exiting the palace
Khwabgah, she walked towards Maryam Zamani Palace,
where a reasonably-sized room was allotted to her at the
behest of the Prince. She always felt a great likeness of this
building with the place that the Ulema describes as hell.
And it’s not just because the red stone made it look like it
was afire, but also for the heat of all the envious gazes and
the yearning for the beloved Prince that seared in her when
she was not in his company.
“My Salim will not let any harm come to me,” Anarkali
said in her mind, and then she said this again out loud, so
the words uttered and heard would bring comfort.
However, it failed to lift the weight of premonition that had
settled on her. Somewhere in the back came the muezzin’s
call to the morning prayer from the Jamma masjid of
Fatehpur Sikri.
6
Those Damned Lands
Someone shook her, “Anarkali” she heard a female voice,

“Anarkali, wake up.”
Anarkali opened her eyes and saw a blurred figure,

apparently the source of the voice calling her name. She
blinked rapidly to clear away the fogginess of interrupted
sleep. A young servant girl stood beside her bed.
“Anarkali, palace guards are here, and they want to take

you with them,” said the girl with an undercurrent of panic
in her voice.
Anarkali sat up in bed, her mind still in a stupor. The

serving girl gave her some water that helped in restoring
her senses.
Her first thought was, “Salim always sent for me through

the eunuchs, then why are the soldiers here? Maybe on the
grounds of the Padishah’s threats, he’s concerned about my
security.”
With a sense of foreboding gnawing at her, she picked up

her dupatta and hurriedly walked out of the room. As she
stepped out into the portico, she saw the inhabitants of the
Maryam Zamani Palace looking at her. Some standing at
their doors, staring right at her, while others looking from
7
The Queen Blossom
behind the lattice windows. Some had a look of curiosity,

while others beheld a satisfaction of consequence.
Anarkali looked around once and then started walking
towards the palace door, head held high. She saw the
guards at the palace door, half a dozen with their usual
weaponry and armour.
With a mere “Come with us,” they started walking, not in

a single file as they usually do, but surrounding her from all
sides.
She had to walk at a quicker pace to match that of the

guards. Almost breathless, she asked, “Where are you
taking me?” No reply.
“Have you been sent by Prince Salim?” Still, nothing.
They’re just following orders, she thought; everyone in
the palace follows somebody’s orders.
The palace guards suddenly stopped in front of a door; it
was the Daftar Khana where, among the record keepers of
the palace, sat the Qadi. The guards opened the doors and
pointed Anarkali towards the Qadi’s room.
She walked slowly towards the Qadi’s room and entered

with a Salam. The Qadi was bent on his floor desk writing
something, the room around him inundated with books
stacked against the walls and bulking out of the
bookshelves and parchments lying around here and there.
The room smelt of paper, ink, and smuggery.
8
Those Damned Lands
Upon Anarkali’s salam, the Qadi looked up, “You’ve

been summoned here to hear the sentence against the crime
that you committed.”
“Crime! What crime, huzur? I did not do anything.

You’ve been mistaken, if I must say most respectfully.”
“By the orders of the Zil-e-Ilahi, Shehnshah-e Hindustan,

Jallal ud din Muhammad Akbar, you are hereby sentenced
to death for attempting to assassinate Prince Salim. You
will be immured….”
Anarkali could not hear anything after that. Taking shaky

breaths, she covered her mouth with her hand in utter
disbelief. How could this happen? How can they blame her
for conspiring against her beloved Prince? Her mind
stopped working as she looked at the Qadi, who had gone
back to what he was doing as if nothing had happened.
“Huzur-e-wala, do not do this to me. This is cruelty!” she

wailed. “My only crime is to fall in love with the Prince of
Hindustan. Punish me for that, but I can never even think of
hurting my Salim.”
Her knees gave in, and she collapsed on the floor,

sobbing uncontrollably. The clamour worked as a signal for
the palace guards to do what they were instructed. Two of
them entered, took Anarkali by her arms, and dragged her
out of the Qadi’s room and out of the Daftar Khana towards
the dungeon.
9
The Queen Blossom
She screamed and wailed in the hope that the Prince

would hear and come to her rescue, but none came. And
then suddenly something hit her at the back of her head,
followed by extreme pain and then everything went black.
10
Those Damned Lands
Her head was throbbing as Anarkali tried to open her eyes.

She didn’t know where she was. It was dark, save for the
gap through which some light was coming. At the gap, she
saw two pairs of hands - one slapping cement on a row of
bricks, the other placing more bricks on top. A sudden
realization brought her back to her senses. The gap was
being closed. She was getting close to a slow, painful death
- brick by brick.
Anarkali attempted to move, but the rope cutting at her

wrists and ankles made her wince with sharp pain. She tried
screaming, but only a dim, muffled sound came out. With a
racing heart and copious sweating, she thought this must be
a dream, and someone would shake her out of it any time
now.
But the hands kept working, laying bricks with a
systematic movement, and before she could think, they
placed the final brick cutting off the last hint of light. And
then everything went black. Anarkali, the most exquisite
dancer of the Mughal court and the light of the Prince’s
life, fell into silent darkness.
11
The Queen Blossom
Clear daylight pierced through her closed eyelids and

caused her to stir. Anarkali sensed her body swaying with
slow rhythmic movements, and her head rested on
something with a strong, distinct smell - it was soft and
alive. I’m riding a horse, she thought as soon as her mind
whirred into working. As she sat up from the horse’s back,
she saw another horse in front of her, ridden by an
indistinguishable man. It was midday, and they were
passing through what seemed like a valley among the
mountains. Her horse was bound through a loose rope with
the other’s saddle that also held oilskin bags on both sides.
After taking stock of her surroundings and not being able

to think of an explanation, she mustered up the courage and
addressed the man on the other horse.
“Who are you?”
The man stopped his horse immediately, looked back,

and sized her up and down with somewhat annoying
expressions.
“You’re up, I see. Mohtarma, don’t you remember? My

friend and I saved your life last night.”
And then it hit home. Memories from the previous night
came gushing in. Coming within whiskers of death had
12
Those Damned Lands
given Anarkali such a shock that it momentarily erased

everything from her mind. But now she recalled what had
happened.
After the prison guards laid the last brick, Anarkali

screamed and screamed with every ounce of strength in her
body as a primal reaction to terror. But screaming doesn’t
really work for someone immured within the walls of the
palace dungeon, that too, with a bound mouth. She soon
realized this and decided to give in to the circumstances.
This was the end, and no one was going to wake her up
from this nightmare. Tears rolled down her face as she
thought of everything that led to this fate.
Born to a tawaif and an unknown father, Nadira was

trained in the art of delicacy and pleasure from the age of
ten; however, feminine grace came naturally to her. All that
was left was a captivating pseudonym, and Nadira Begum
chose to be known as Anarkali (pomegranate blossom).
Everyone at the establishment of pleasure knew that these
attributes and her exquisite beauty would one day land her
in the palace - and this is exactly what had happened. She
went to the palace one day as a part of the dancing troupe
and never left. Right through her first dance, she caught the
eye of Prince Salim and was invited to his chambers that
very night. Anarkali was scared, though, her reluctance
stemming from the stories she heard of emperors and
princes being cruel to the concubines. However, when she
came into the Prince’s company, she found him to be gentle
and compassionate. They both found comfort in each
13
The Queen Blossom
other’s company, and so began a beautiful relationship. He

would write poetry, and she would improve upon it. He
would get the musicians to sing his verses, and she would
dance to the very songs that serenaded her. She even chose
the fabrics for his dresses, and he would gladly don them.
This is also where she met Mir Ali when she expressed
her wish to learn to write, and the Prince called for one of
the palace scribes to teach her. It was difficult in the
beginning as she had a lot of questions, and Mir Ali had
very little patience. But Mir Ali had taught many students
and had a good sense of handling the ones like Anarkali.
He told her to save all her questions for the end of the
session and that he would only answer them if she showed
progress in the lesson. The day she wrote one complete
sentence and was rewarded by asking for anything she
wanted, Anarkali asked Mir Ali about his family. He told
her that he and his sister were the only survivors of a thug
raid that looted and killed their family. However, later, his
young sister lost her life to a snakebite, and now he was
alone in the world. Hearing this, Anarkali offered to be his
sister as she, too, had no one in the world to call family,
and Mir Ali had gladly agreed.
It was when the Prince suggested that they should marry

that the complications started to take shape. No matter how
much they loved each other or how perfect their match was,
Anarkali knew her place. Royals married into royals, and
are it territorial expansion or military ties, there is always
some cause that their marriages fulfilled. On the other
14
Those Damned Lands
hand, concubines remained concubines no matter whom

their royal married. Their status changed only if a more
attractive one would elbow them out of imperial favours.
Anarkali tried to talk Prince Salim out of this notion, but

a certain stubbornness comes built-in with the royal
personality. He went to his father, the Padishah, and, as
expected, his request was slammed down immediately. He
tried several ways to convince his father, sending messages
to different people, including his own mother and Emperor
Akbar’s most trusted spouse, but all in vain. Anarkali
understood that it was the Prince’s insistence that must
have caused the Padishah to order her execution but what
she failed to understand was if she was so endeared to the
Prince that he stood against the will of Shahenshah-e-
Hindustan, then why didn’t he come to save her? Why did
he abandon her to meet a slow, painful death?
Her train of thought came to a sudden halt when Anarkali

heard a knocking on the freshly-built wall with metallic
objects. The knocking became louder, and then she saw the
sharp end of a chisel that made its way through the wall.
The chisel slid back, and a beam of light entered the
chamber in its place. Brows raised, eyes wide open, she
watched all this with a mix of disbelief and tense
anticipation. The knocking continued, and a whole brick
moved and then she saw what she never expected and
would never forget, the thin, bearded face of Mir Ali.
How Mir Ali and his companion took her out of the
palace dungeons under the watchful eyes of the guards was
15
The Queen Blossom
still not clear to Anarkali, but she remembered exiting the

palace complex, passing through narrow winding streets of
Fatehpur Sikri and reaching the Agra Gate where two
horses awaited them.
She now recalled Mir Ali saying. “Nadira, go with this

man. He is my trusted friend. He will take you to a village
far from here where my aunt lives. You can live with her
for as long as you want. It won’t be a comfortable life, but I
will send you some money whenever I can. But remember,
for the palace and its inhabitants, you are dead. Now go.
May Allah be with you.”
All that recollection brought with it a sudden feeling of

loneliness and sorrow. She was grateful to Mir Ali for
saving her life but didn’t really look forward to living it.
After all, once you pluck it from the garden, a blossom is
destined to wilt and wither.
16
Those Damned Lands
The sky was still dark and dotted with innumerable stars,
but one could see the hues of sunrise slowly rising from the
east. Birds chirped, roosters crowed, and Anarkali gathered
wood from the store room to start with the morning meal.
She had already milked the goat, fed the chicken, and filled
up the water trough for the animals to drink from. This was
her life for many years now, looking after the livestock and
attending to the household chores.
She was trying to start a fire in the stove, fanning and

blowing onto the few burning branches, when she heard a
knock on the door across the small courtyard. The door
wasn’t locked anyway, so whoever it was came right in.
The smoke from the stove made it difficult to see clearly,
but from the lean shape, she could make out that it was Mir
Ali.
“Salam Nadira,” he said, sitting down beside her.
“Walekum Salam Mir Bhai,” she said with a face that

was genuinely happy to see him. “What brings you to our
humble dwellings?”
“This is indeed humble,” said Mir Ali looking around

with mildly worried expressions. “I’m sorry that you have
to live in such circumstances.”
17
The Queen Blossom
“It’s no problem, Mir Bhai. I eat two meals and have a

roof above my head. What else can a person ask for?”
Anarkali said while keeping herself busy with the breakfast
preparation.
“Animals need only food and shelter to survive. We

humans also need happiness to get through life.”
“I am happy. The old lady, your aunt, she’s kind to me.

Though I wouldn’t mind talking to someone once in a
while but she’s religiously quiet,” Anarkali said with a
smile. “Other than that, I am happy.”
“I’m not your blood brother, but I’ve seen you in better
shape when….” Mir Ali stopped at that, thinking it to be
inappropriate to talk about the past. “Anyway, I didn’t
come all the way to meet my taciturn aunt. There’s
something I want to talk to you about - a marriage
proposal.” “Mir Bhai, I’m not…,” she started to protest.
“Hear me out first. There’s a man I know, an honest man,
searching for a good woman to be his wife. His name is
Dilras Beig, and he is the Munshi of Sher Afgan Khan, the
Jagirdar of Burdawan. I think you will be very happy with
him.”
Anarkali started to say something, but Mir Ali stopped

him, “I saved your life once. Let me save it again.”
With that, Mir Ali stood up, “I’m going to take some rest
now, but I want you to think about what I said and inform
me of your decision by tomorrow.”
18
Those Damned Lands
There wasn’t much to think about. Not a single day went

by when Anarkali did not think about the Prince and her
life in the Mughal palace, but she knew that that life was
over. What did it matter if she lived under a thatched roof
or a decorated ceiling? Maybe the new life would help ease
the pain of separation.
When Mir Ali came to Anarkali the next morning, asking

about her decision, she said that she agreed. Hearing her
answer, Mir Ali’s spirits buoyed, and he left immediately to
give the auspicious news to the groom and set a date for the
wedding.
The days went by quickly as the wedding preparations

broke the humdrum routine of the house until the day came
when Anarkali found herself humbly decked as a bride. The
Nikkah happened and she left with her new husband to his
house.
As she was sitting in her nuptial room waiting for the
groom, a woman from the house came in and offered her a
laddu with a smile.
“Is it some wedding tradition in your family?” she asked

with a smile while taking the laddu.
“No, dulhan. Today Prince Salim has been crowned as

the Padishah of Hindustan, and the palace has distributed
sweets and gifts all through the empire. May Allah give
him a long life.”
19
The Queen Blossom
Saying this, the woman left, leaving Anarkali in a pool of

emotions and reminiscing. They had talked about it
countless times, among the blooming orchids and under the
night sky, that on the day of his coronation, the Prince
wanted her to be by his side as they would start a new life
together. Well, how can one side-step one’s fate? Today the
two were beginning a new life, just not together.
20
Those Damned Lands
“Nadira, do you love your husband?” asked Mehru Nisa

Begum, wife of Sher Afgan Khan, the Jagirdar of
Burdawan.
The question caught Anarkali by surprise and took her on

a long trail of thoughts. She was Dilras Beig’s wife for
many years now, and he had been nothing but kind to her.
He attended to her every need and sought her advice in
personal and official matters. Dilras had given her a
comfortable life, and it was only to ward off her loneliness,
stemming from childlessness, that he got her this work as
an attendant for Sher Afgan’s wife. But it was neither
Dilras’s fault that he could not make it to Anarkali’s heart,
nor was she knowingly shutting him out. Her heart simply
didn’t open up - neither to let anyone in nor to let a soul
out.
Instead of lying, Anarkali thought it wise to change the

subject, “I know Mehru Nisa Begum, you’re worried about
Jagirdar sahib’s visit to the court of the Subedar sahib. But
you shouldn’t trouble your heart. If Allah wills, he will
come back home soon.”
“You might be right, Nadira, but I have this uneasy

feeling in my heart. Subedar Qutbuddin Koka is known for
21
The Queen Blossom
his bad temper, which has a lot to do with being the

Padishah’s brother. He has not been very happy with the
Khan and it has been quite a lot of days now since the Khan
has gone to his court.” Mehru Nisa continued in a quivering
voice, “If anything happened to the Khan, I will never be
able to live without him.” With that, she started sobbing.
Anarkali consoled Mehru Nisa Begum and persuaded her to
take some rest.
However, the next morning Mehru Nisa Begum’s

premonitions turned out to be true when an almost
breathless and wailing servant came in and announced the
worst news. Sher Afgan was murdered by Qutbuddin Koka.
He wasn’t even willing to send Sher Afgan’s body to his
family but the Padishah got to know about Qutbuddin’s
mischief and expressed deep regret. The Padishah ordered
for his body to be sent to his family with a special convoy
of palace guards.
When Sher Afgan’s body was brought to his home, it

bore with it another adversity for Mehru Nisa Begum.
There was a letter from the Padishah that, after many
phrases of deepest apologies, suggested that he would take
Sher Afgan’s widow in his Nikkah to atone for his
brother’s crimes and offer her the comforts of the royal
palace. It was also stated that if Sher Afgan’s widow agrees
to the proposal, She should pack up her belongings and
travel to the capital as soon as possible in the company of
the same royal guards that accompanied her husband’s
body.
22
Those Damned Lands
Mehru Nisa begum wailed and beat her chest for all that
had happened and was about to happen. When Anarkali
asked her about her decision, Mehru Nisa Begum looked at
her with eyes that appeared red and raw and said, “This is
not up to me to decide Nadira. My fate has been sealed.
You can never refuse the Padishah’s proposal.” She
continued with a cold sob, “But I told you before, I will die
without my Khan.”
Mehru Nisa Begum then sent a message to the guards that

she’ll be ready to leave at daybreak and relieved the
servants of their duties. She then asked Anarkali to prepare
for her journey. As Anarkali busied herself with the
packing, and though she felt terribly sorry for her, she
couldn’t stop thinking that the Begum was going to live
with Padishah, her beloved Prince Salim. The irony of the
situation made her sigh and she wished to be one of
Begum’s belongings so she could be packed up and taken
to the capital with her.
Just as Anarkali finished packing, she went into the

Begum’s room to ask for her leave. What she saw there
made her take a step back and hold the door to keep her
from falling over. Mehru Nisa Begum was dropped on the
floor in a lump with a tiny glass bottle dangling from her
hand. Anarkali ran to the Begum, shook her, and called out
to her in an attempt to bring her back to consciousness. But
Mehru Nisa Begum had crossed to the other side.
Anarkali stood over the Begum’s lifeless body, not
knowing what to do. At that very moment, a thought struck
23
The Queen Blossom
her and reverberated through her body. Saying a silent

prayer in her heart, she decided to act upon it.
First, she took off her clothes, put them on Mehru Nisa
Begum’s body and herself got into some of the Begum’s
clothes. Then she dragged the Begum’s body out in the
courtyard towards the well. She knew that all the servants
had been dismissed except for the chowkidar, but her heart
still beat wildly at the thought of what she was about to do.
Dragging the Begum’s body to the well, she paused for a

moment to slow her breaths down. Then, with utmost regret
tugging at her heart, she lifted the Begum’s body and
hurled it into the well, reciting verses from the Qur’an
asking Allah’s forgiveness for the deceased Begum and for
herself. Bent over the edge of the well, she heard an
enormous plop. It was done.
Anarkali looked around one more time and raced back to

the house. The quiet of midnight was layered over by the
silence of the deceased members of the house. Anarkali sat
down on the Begum’s writing desk and started writing a
letter. The tremor in her hands, brought on by what she just
did and the things she was about to draft, made it difficult
to write, and so it took her quite a while to finish. Then she
went out to give the letter to the chowkidar so he could
deliver it to her husband in the morning.
It was almost daybreak; she could hear the men readying

their horses in the Mehmankhana enclosure. She picked up
the things that she packed for the Begum’s journey and
24
Those Damned Lands
went to the back gate of the house, announcing in a loud

voice,
“I am ready for the departure.”
The guards brought in the palanquin, and she hopped in.

Somewhere in the back came the muezzin’s call to the
morning prayer from the Jamma masjid of Burdawan.
25
The Queen Blossom
The Padishah paced up and down his sleeping chamber. He

felt truly embarrassed and uncomfortable at what he was
about to do, but he had to do it to redeem himself for his
brother’s foolish mistake. He promised himself that this
was for a noble cause and it was just going to happen once,
to fulfil the necessity of consummating the marriage.
Suddenly the darogha announced the arrival of the

awaited, so he turned around and looked. Sher Afgan
Khan’s widow was standing there with the veil hiding her
face. The Padishah took careful steps towards her and lifted
the veil.
At that moment he froze, eyes wide open, and the mind

trying to process the sight he beheld. It was the woman’s
Salam that broke the spell.
“Is this a dream?” he asked with a racing heart.
The woman smiled, “No, my dear Padishah salamat, this

is real. I am here, your pomegranate blossom, your
Anarkali.”
Anarkali then sat him down, looking at his gracefully

aged face, and told him the whole story of how her life was
26
Those Damned Lands
spent separated from him and how fate conspired to bring

them together.
The Padishah heard everything amongst tears and smiles.
Once she had finished, he took her to the balcony. As they
stood under the night sky, exceptionally starry and cool for
an Indian summer, the Padishah said to Anarkali,
“We are going to live a beautiful life and rule over

Hindustan, hand in hand. You will be the light of my world,
my Nur Jehan and I will always be your Majnu Salim.”
And then he recited a couplet that he wrote in her memory,
Ah gar man baz binam ruyi yari khwish ra
Ta qayamat shukr goyam kardgari khwish ra
Ah! could I behold the face of my beloved once more,
I would give thanks unto my Creator until the day of

resurrection.
27
The Queen Blossom
Dilras woke up with a knock on the door that reminded him

of his wife who was not back from Jagirdar sahib’s house
last night but owing to the Begum’s dreadful condition on
leaving for the capital, he thought it wise not to disturb her.
He opened the door and saw the chowkidar of the
Jagirdar sahib’s house, who handed him a piece of paper.
Being the munshi of the late Jagirdar sahib, he was
managing all the paperwork of his house upon the Begum’s
departure. So, thinking it to be an official document from
the house, he opened it and started to read it:
My dearest Dallas,
This gives me immense pain to write this letter to you,

but I must follow my heart. A wise man once told me that
humans are not like animals that can survive on food and
shelter. They need to be happy as well to sustain their life -
and my dear Dilras, I was not happy.
You are never to be blamed for my unhappiness. After

all, you gave me everything a wife can wish for in a good
husband. I truly enjoyed your companionship, and the
lovely memories I made with you will always be with me.
28
Those Damned Lands
However, before meeting you I lost something precious

and could not put my heart to rest. And the only way I see
out of this miserable life is to finish it altogether.
Please forgive me, and do not condemn yourself for this.

You are a wonderful man and on the day of judgment, I
will vouch for the purity of your heart.
Yours sincere,
Nadira Begum
Dliras dropped the paper, mounted his horse, and

galloped to the Jagirdar sahib’s house. Upon reaching, he
saw there was already a commotion in the courtyard.
Expecting the worst, he parted the crowd and walked to the
object of their fascination.
The corpse was bloated and blue from being drowned,
which rendered it unrecognizable. He had no heart to look
at her face anyway, but from the dress, she was wearing, he
could tell that this was his dear wife.
“Inna Lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un, please arrange for the

funeral,” he asked someone and left.
29
The Queen Blossom
Note from the writer
Ali Quli Istajlu, later titled Sher Afgan Khan by the

Mughal emperor Jehangir, was a real person. He was
the Jagirdar of Burawan in West Bengal, and he died in
a skirmish with Qutbuddin Khan Koka in his court.
Qutbuddin Khan Koka was the foster brother of

emperor Jehangir and the Subedar (Governor) of
Bengal during his reign.
Mehru Nisa Begum was Sher Afgan’s real wife. After

Sher Afgan’s death at the hands of his brother, she was
proposed to by emperor Jehangir, and she accepted.
She became the emperor’s favourite and most trusted
companion and came to be known as the famous and
remarkable queen Nur Jehan.
Everything else is the figment of my wacky

imagination.
30
A Thousand Nights Ago
by
Emaan Ali
A Thosuand Nights Ago
The white beauty in the charcoal sky gleams with the

greatest luminance, overwhelming the pinpricks of the
thousands of winking stars. A gentle breeze rife with
mysticism stirs the lush green leaves hanging from the few
shrubs nearby. There is the slightest hue of rose gold
colouring the spaces between the slants of the towering,
imposing mountains. Their jagged peaks seem to pierce the
sky and add to the breathtakingly peaceful atmosphere. The
mountains are still dusted with pure white snow clinging to
the sides and enhancing their sharp angles.
Tonight, the water in the lake itself does not stir even
slightly. The surface is free of ripples and lies uncannily
unmoving. The full moon, in all its brilliance, is flawlessly
reflected in the lake. To most onlookers, the sight would
strike an undeterrable certainty of the lake transforming
into a direct portal to a world beyond our own. But to the
few who know better, this night signifies a strange
intersection between two constants. It is a night of
anticipation, and some might even go on to claim that it is a
night riddled with enchantment.
However, there are no onlookers at this very moment but

two. It is as if everyone else is subliminally warded away
from this vicinity. I sense a young boy crouching close to
the far side of the lake. A nagging suspicion tells me he
will be the one to carry forward the tale of this night. Apart
from the child, there is a lone figure cross-legged on the
shore. His turban and tattered clothes are illuminated by the
32
Those Damned Lands
moonlight. His eyes are closed, and his lips move as if he is

uttering prayers. Meanwhile, the world past the curtain of
blackness in his eyes watches and waits. Flora and fauna
remain silent. Even the wind stops its mischievous dance
and tamely hovers. The Invisibles, like me, have also
unwittingly left our perches and wandered here to survey.
Within a few minutes, light dawns on the eastern side of

the lake. It draws closer, increasing in brightness. Soon, its
brightness is enough to rival that of the moon. The others
might not be acquainted with it yet still, but I know behind
that light, there is a creature of immense beauty, and the
light emits from the crown perched on her head. The figure
on the shore also seems to fidget when the light finally
encompasses him and opens his hazel eyes, only to gape in
wonder.
As this meeting occurs miles away, I sense a deafening

roar in a forbiddingly gigantic fortress and footfalls that the
ignorant humans are fortunate enough to mistake as
earthquakes. With the rising panic of impending doom and
the molten fear emanating from the fairy creeping over me,
I awaken.
*****
The snow where I reside falls in thick clumps on the

mountains. It is bitterly cold, yet the fire burning inside me
keeps me and my brethren impervious to it. I rise and fly
towards the peak of Nanga Parbat, taking the time to
33
ponder my dream. The night I dreamed of was one that

took place thousands of years ago. I seldom relive it in my
nightly visions, and even when I do, it never feels as
terrifying as it did this time.
As I watch the sun make its ascent from the east, my

mind drifts to Saif ul Malook. Thousands of years ago, an
Egyptian prince named Saif ul Malook dreamed of seven
fairies at a lake that mirrored the night of the full moon. He
vowed to seek the most beautiful one of them, Badr Jamal.
After five years of fruitless efforts, a buzurg told him that
Badr Jamal was the fairy princess. The elder then
summoned me, and I transported the prince to the lake he
described in Kaghan. It was there that he prayed for 40
days without food or water and, on the auspicious night of
the full moon, beheld the fairy princess in all her majesty.
She told him that she had escaped from the clutches of a
fearsome giant, Deo Safaid, who kept her enslaved out of
his love for her. Deo was enraged at the fairy’s escape and
made his way to the lake. I transported them to safety,
leaving Deo to mourn the loss of his love. He trudged to
the Deosai Plains north, where all giants were born and
came to die. His promise was the one that was truly
chilling. He looked upon me and not only cursed mankind
and fae. He cursed the brethren of the one who had helped
them escape. My kind.
The ominous feeling plaguing me, coupled with the

dream, makes me feel that the time I feared has finally
dawned upon us, and there is no one who can rectify the
34
Those Damned Lands
curse apart from me. But it is an arduous task and

fearsome. This could be something that changes the entire
world as all of us know it and shatters the tenuous balance
existing between all species.
Following an hour of introspection, I head to Naabil. He

has been alive nearly as long as I have. Though we do not
fraternize often, I find myself in urgent need of advice. The
other older jinns headed to different places, but I found
myself compelled to stay here all these years. I now realize
why that was.
Naabil is on the foothills of the mountains, and I find

myself relieved to discover that he is alone for now. I hide
my form before approaching him.
“Maalik,” he greets me. I nod to him.
“What have you been doing these days?” I ask in an

attempt to lay the foundation for a conversation. Naabil
gives me an amused sideways glance.
“Guarding our mountain, as we have been doing for

centuries. Not that you have been concerned with our
activities much,” he replies.
I wrinkle my head in disgust. I have never approved of

Naabil’s tactics to terrorize humans from climbing Nanga
Parbat. I am very close to reminding him that the mountain
no more belongs to us than the trees belong to the birds, but
I dismiss the urge to say so. It would do no good to rehash
a millennium-old squabble.
35
“I fear Deo Safaid may rise again,” I say to him, glad that
I hid my form so as it would not mirror my guilt. Naabil
turns sharply. There is a stilted pause.
“When?” he barks.
“Soon,” I answer quietly.
Naabil turns and shoots up wrathfully. He draws close

and sneers, “I told you. You have doomed our kind. You
brought this day upon us.”
I let out a sigh but say nothing because I know he speaks

the truth.
“Humans,” he spits out, “You should be loyal to your

own kind. But look where your compassion got us.”
“They deserved to be saved,” I say with a stronger voice.

“I do not regret helping them. I regret being seen by Deo
Safaid long enough for him to speak his curse, but I have
never once regretted saving Saif and Badr Jamal.”
Naabil gives me a disbelieving look and hisses, “Then
you are foolish.”
I cannot listen to more. Instead, I start to head away when

Naabil calls out,
“Seek Khushbakht. She may know more.”
I do not look back. On my solitary peak, I pray to the

Almighty for support and transport to the outskirts of the
land of the fairies.
36
Those Damned Lands
*****
Twilight hangs over Fairy Meadows perpetually, and even

with my enhanced eyesight, I cannot make out much of the
scenic landscape. The veil that obscures the land of the
fairies also obscures them from the eyes of other creatures.
Only one with an invitation can enter the land of the fairies,
and since I have nothing but desperation clawing up my
mind, I shout for an urgent meeting with Khushbakht.
Then, I wait, with nothing but the rustling leaves and
curious woodland spirits for company.
Presently, a flame-coloured light approaches. It waits and

seems to regard me. I am instantly aware that this is the
fairy Khushbakht, but she does not seem to trust me
enough to reveal her form. I do not blame her for that since
my own is also concealed.
“Jinn,” she says in a high, clear voice, “Why do you
intrude upon our home?”
Hearing her voice once again takes me back to my dream.

When Badr Jamal approached Saif, there were six other
lights hanging back and glowing dimly. They were friends
of the princess. One of the lights, the same flame-coloured,
had seemed to gaze at me before I had heard the giant’s
bloodcurdling roar.
“You know why I am here,” I realized aloud.
37
“You had the same dream I did, did you not?” The fairy
considers me and nods.
“Where are the other five?” I ask.
“They passed peacefully, around five centuries ago,”

responds Khushbakht, hovering somewhat impatiently.
“We must do something. We cannot let the wrath of an

awakening giant consume this world and set it aflame,” I
advance towards her. “Naabil said you may know
something crucial. You must tell me,” I urge. Khushbakht’s
light flares brighter. “To stop Deo Safaid, we need
something from all three creatures present there that fateful
night. Something from a jinn, something from a pari and
something from an insaan,” she muses, “but what?”
This seems to stir up an old memory, a poem sung by a

strange creature several millennia ago.
“A jinn’s spirit, a pari’s tear fetches a great price, while a
human’s grit may be tested by making a painful sacrifice,”
I speak aloud.
Khushbakht’s light flickers. “A strange rhyme to recount

at this very moment,” she comments.
My concealment flickers for the barest moment as I think
hard. “This may very well be the key to our salvation.
Someone told me a long time ago that this would one day
save the balance we all share.”
38
Those Damned Lands
Khushbakht seems to think about this. “Might I ask who

this creature was?” she asks.
“It is not one I wish to name. Mysteries of the world
remain mysteries for a reason,” I tell her sharply.
Khushbakht glances to the border of her land and speaks

quickly, “If Deo Safaid rises as quickly as we fear, then I
am afraid that soon his curse will impact your kind and
mankind sooner than you might expect.”
“Why?” I query, alarmed, “Has it already started here?”
“Some of the fairies are vanishing without a trace. This

has never happened before. It is only a few fairies so far,
but we are keeping it very quiet. I fear that after my dream,
the true reason for this is the curse.”
This troubles me more than I would like to admit to
Khushbakht. I am seized by bone-chilling panic and start to
depart instantly but am suddenly stopped by a question that
has been nagging me for a thousand years. “What happened
to Saif and Badar after I brought them here?” I ask her.
Khushbakht laughs and replies, “It took you a thousand

nights to ask that? Badar gave up her crown. She and Saif
left for a place that no one else knew of. They may be
alive, or they may have passed. But I do know that this is
not their quest. They vowed not to ever be caught up in the
crosshairs of other creatures again.”
39
Hearing this leaves me a little relieved. “You would

know that if you ever got off your mountain,” says
Khushbakht.
“I have been curious about what happened to those two

every single day of my long, long life. Though I never
regretted saving them, I did not want to see them either. I
do not know if you would understand that,” I say quietly.
“Maybe I do,” says Khushbakht, “I have had a long life,

too, jinn.” Her light starts to retreat back to her land.
“Wait!” I call after her, “You need to come too. What

about the tear of a fairy?”
“Head to Lake Saif ul Malook and make haste. You may

find that you may not need me after all,” comes her voice,
leaving me alone in the portentous twilight.
*****
Lake Saif ul Malook is alive with hordes of people. Some

shield their eyes against the uncharacteristically brilliant
sun while children dash up to the gentle tides of the lakes,
mewling for a boat ride or another cone of iced cream. It is
jostling to be thrust from the eternal twilight to a usual
afternoon, but I neglect the discomfort and move towards
the lake.
In the very centre of the lake, there seems to be a
disturbance in some of the surrounding boats that have
40
Those Damned Lands
clustered there. I draw closer and catch a wisp of worried,

fast conversation from the boaters.
“...one minute he was right here, and the next he fell.”
“Was he not wearing a lifejacket?”
“Of course he was! He suddenly tumbled over the edge

and sank fast. I do not know how that is possible.”
“This has never been seen before.”
“My father!” screeched a girl, wailing and sobbing over

the edge of the boat, struggling to get in the water.
This has taken me by immense surprise. I shoot towards

two of the locals talking amongst themselves to the side.
One of them glances back to make sure that no one is

listening before whispering, “Just this dawn, an empty boat
was found smack in the middle of the lake. It was Omar’s.
There was just the boat and no Omar.”
The other man is alarmed. “What in the world is

happening? First, the bridge in Hunza collapsed and was
utterly demolished by that violent storm, and now this?
Two drowned in a single day? It seems that nature itself
has turned against us.”
I do not listen to anything more. I had no inkling about

the bridge collapsing in Hunza. Jinn usually played mild
pranks on the humans, but something tells me that
destruction of such a magnitude was no prank, neither was
it the doing of any jinn. The damage is accelerating, and
41
very soon, a terrible fate would befall the Jinnat too.

Without any more thought, I dive beneath the depths of
Lake Saif ul Malook.
It is crystal clear and startlingly blue. There are only

fronds of seaweed and green kelps far below. I give an
urgent call, soundless to everyone but the creature that I
must speak to. There is a beat of silence and muted sounds
from up above the surface. All of a sudden, a faint blue
outline materializes in front of me. I cannot see it clearer,
but the woman speaks up,
“You seek knowledge from the jalparis?”
“Yes,” I reply hastily. “Your kind must remember

everything that happens. You must follow the trail of every
creature through the water bodies, hear every thought and
see every action from every single river and stream there is.
Where do I find what I need? To restore balance?”
The mermaid spirit thinks. “You need a human,” she
speaks haltingly, “as well as a tear. There is a cottage on
the banks of the River Indus. I cannot exactly say which
one, but I believe it to be near Skardu. When you go there
and find the right place, you will find both a human and a
tear. Human is different. Different from these others,” she
gestures upwards. “Her thoughts and soul are special. She
has something of Badr and Saif in there.”
I cannot comprehend the vastness of this revelation, but it

is obvious that I do not have the luxury of pondering it
42
Those Damned Lands
further. I say my thanks but pause. “Do you know why Deo
Safaid is rising? Why now, after a thousand years?”
The jalpari shakes her head. “Sometimes all it takes is a
ripple to create a roar.” I do not understand. “What do you
mean?” “A giant dies after completely surrendering
emotions like regret and revenge. He was never properly
sealed there. His curse upon your kinds tied him here. He
was always meant to rise. It was qismet.”
“Can you see my qismet? What about my soul?” I ask the

jalpari, but she gives me a barely perceptible, wry smile.
“Your soul is yet to undergo its true test. I cannot tell you
what your soul looks like. It will reveal itself to you on its
own, but all in due time.”
It is thought-provoking but slightly horrifying. It means

that my true test will most likely be a challenge all on its
own, and I do not trust myself to be worthy enough to
overcome it.
*****
After an entire night of transporting myself and futile

efforts, I arrived outside one of the last ramshackle
cottages. The roar of the river echoes in the silence. The
sun is about to rise once again. I still do not know exactly
who or what I am looking for, but some instinct tells me I
will be able to know the instant I see them.
43
I am about to peek through the window of the cottage

when a young girl dashes out through the front door,
leaving it swinging squeakily on its hinges. Incredulously,
and out of pure boredom, I follow her to a grassy knoll next
to the river Indus. A fresh current of wind toys with the
tresses escaped her braid, lifting them up and making them
whip her face like a possessed entity. It is particularly
picturesque this dawn, with wisps of clouds extrapolating
the overall serenity. Summer days like these in May were
when these humans got a much-needed reprieve from the
blistering cold were the best ones. I hear the distant shouts
of the girl’s brother, desperately trying to reign in two goat
kids.
The girl has golden brown hair and light eyes that are
painfully familiar, but I do not place them. Her cheeks are
red and ruddy, and she cradles an old, beaten-up rectangle
box in her arms. A closer look from over her shoulder
confirms to me that it is a chessboard. How odd. She shook
the chessboard, and a few strange shapes fell out and
littered the ground with sparse grass. They are all carved
crudely from black stone and are faceless. Seven of the
figures have wings, one has a sword, and the last one is
slightly larger than the others.
The girl suddenly stiffens before saying in a matter-of-

fact voice.
“Do you want to play with me?”
44
Those Damned Lands
I freeze, looking around to see whom she is addressing.

But there is no one around. When I look back, her gaze is
fixed on me, an intelligence beyond her years glistening
behind her eyes. I frown.
“You can… see me?” I query, rattled. I have heard of

humans who can see our kind but have never come across
one myself in all the millennia I have been alive. The girl
folds her legs and nods, saying breezily,
“I always have been able to see all kinds of things. It is

fascinating.” I regard her carefully.
“Does it not… terrify you?” I inquire, intrigued.
“No, of course, it does not. It makes me special,” she says

smugly. I am amused.
“What do your parents think?” I ask her, gesturing to the
cottage behind us.
The girl shakes her head. “They are not my parents. My
parents died in a car accident ten years ago. These were
friends of theirs that took me in. I have not told them about
what I can do. My real parents knew. My mother could see
the unseen too,” she smiles.
I am astonished.
“What is your name?” she asks me after a minute.
“Names have power. I will not give you mine. Only the
oldest of Jinnat know my name,” I tell, somewhat sternly.
45
She shrugs. “Well, if names have power, I shall give you

mine. So you feel better. My name is Irha.”
I grudgingly admire her openness. “Have you never met
the malicious ones of our kind?” I ask her, but Irha shakes
her head.
“No. Luckily for me, it has only been the good ones. I
suspect you are one of them, too,” she says shrewdly,
which leads me to ask,
“How old are you, girl?” Irha glances at me wryly at my

refusal to use her name before she replies, “Fourteen.”
The chess set keeps distracting me. “Where are the other
chess pieces? Why do these ones look so… strange?” I
demand, advancing to take a closer look at the board. Irha
tugs the board closer to her, almost protectively.
“I did not lose them! They have always been like this,”
she says defensively, “My mother gave it to me. This is the
only thing I have of hers now.” I retreat. Something tells
me that this is the girl. If her seeing Jinnat is not a dead
giveaway, I do not know what is.
“Have you heard the story of Saif ul Malook?” I query.

Irha perks up excitedly. “Of course! Mama always told me
that one, on the 14th night of every month. When the stars
crested the sky and looked like an entire galaxy, close
enough to touch,” she says, a little wistfully. I sense she
misses her mother, but something about the way she
describes her leaves me inquisitive about her real origins.
46
Those Damned Lands
But since Irha is so young and was orphaned at only four

years of age, I doubt she would have any inkling. “Well
then, there is much more I have to tell you,” I say, and she
listens to the tale very quietly, eyes wide and incredulous.
The sun inches further and further higher. To anyone else,
it would seem Irha was listening to the wind, completely
frozen.
“I believe you are the person I need,” I conclude. Irha

twists her braid nervously. “Really?” she asks hopefully.
“The mermaid, the jalpari… She told you that?” “She did,”
I say. Irha fidgets with one of the chess pieces, then. A
sudden thought assaults me. “These pieces. They remind
me of a night a thousand years ago….” I begin. She drops
the piece and gazes at me before narrowing her eyes at the
chessboard.
“A few of the squares are slightly darker than the others.

Am I meant to position the pieces correctly?” she mused,
positioning six-winged fairy figures together. One of them
had a conspicuous crown, so she placed that one separately,
with the armed Saiful Malook between her and the giant.
We then waited frantically, and I could sense that Irha had
her breath held. What are we supposed to do now?
There is suddenly a flash that makes us scramble

backwards in terror. The figures and the top part of the
board magically vanish. We wait with bated breath as a vial
with a single perfect pearl rises out. There is a yellowed
label in slanting Arabic, which I translated,
47
“The tear of my queen when she was in captivity. Her

agony will trump Deo’s heartbreak and make sure his exile
from the worldly domain is permanent. Drop it in the well
of his tears to ensure your salvation.”
“The tear turned to a pearl over time,” breathed Irha,

mystified. I stare at her. How in the world had this
managed to end up with this girl directly from Saif? It was
unimaginable.
“Well of his tears,” I echo, and Irha adds,
“It must be Ansoo Lake! As Deo trekked up Deosai

Plains, his tears dripped down and formed a giant puddle.
A lasting sign of his regret. We need to go there!” she
urged, and I found myself agreeing with her. As we sit in
silence, absorbing the revelation, the top of the chessboard
and the chess pieces appear and drop to the ground with
low thuds.
“We need to leave right away. Come with me, girl,” I
beckon.
“Wait,” she yelps, running to her cottage, “I need to tell

them I am going to the market!”
“Make haste,” I yell after her.
She is back in a flash, the chessboard and vial tucked in a

fabric bag at her side. Irha gives me her hand gingerly, with
tightly clenched eyes, and I whisk us away.
*****
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Those Damned Lands
Ansoo Lake takes Irha’s breath away. It truly is a

magnificent sight in the flawless teardrop shape. I have
been here a couple of times in the previous centuries to
survey it grimly and pray that the curse never came into
being so I am not as taken aback by its beauty. There are
many people here as well, snapping pictures. Some give
Irha, standing alone within a few feet of the lake, a second
glance but then pay no heed.
As we advance quickly to drop the pearl, a huge tremor

knocks everyone to the ground. The ground continues
quivering dangerously. There are frantic screams.
“Run!” The locals urge, and there is a stampede. Irha

jumps to her feet and is about to toss the pearl to me so I
may drop it from the sky, but the ground beneath her gives
another fatal jolt and drops her horrifyingly close to the
edge of the lake. I watch with dismay and move quickly,
but the pearl flies from her clammy hand and drops under
the heel of a fleeing man. She crawls towards it and cries
out. It is in pieces.
Despair floods me, but I shake my head, trying to think.

Irha races past me, and I turn as she opens the fabric bag
and chucks her beloved chessboard into the lake. It sinks
past.
“What…?” I start, but Irha points at the lake, saying,
“My sacrifice.”
49
The lakewater is bubbling slightly, and the quakes have

gotten less intense. I look at Irha, shocked. I never thought
to witness such courage, that too, from a young human
child.
“Then it is my turn, child,” I say to her quietly, letting my

presence encompass her warmly for a second before flying
to the river.
“Wait! Maalik!” she yells. I freeze, turning around.
“How did you…?”
“I know the names of the unseen, too, just by looking at

them.”
I am speechless. She did not reveal that earlier, simply to

make me feel safer.
“It is my time, girl. It will be my spirit that satiates the

giant. He will never be close to rising again. My spirit will
seal him.”
“Wait,” she pleads again, but I silence her with a burst of
wind. My life has been long. I have seen dynasties rise and
fall and creatures evolve and go extinct. It has been a long
life rife with regrets and joys. Now, I know this is the best
way to restore the balance. I am filled with satisfaction and
pride for the fact that my spirit will at least keep the
balance going for as long as the Almighty wishes.
Irha crouches at the edge of the lake as I plummet
downwards to the middle of the lake. A tear snakes down
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her face with a golden hue. I watch in amazement as it

winks in the dying light and falls, turning the entire lake
gold. I suddenly recognize her light eyes. They are that of
the fairy princess, Badr. This girl and her mother may be
descendants of her and Saif.
“Journey to the Fairy Meadows. They will open the door

to the realm you belong to,” I say to her softly from afar.
The heir to the fairy crown lifts a hand to her heart,

shouting, “I will keep your name alive, Maalik,” she
promises with tearful eyes.
The dying sun looks like a crown on her head. My

presence flickers. One second, I relive my entire life, and
the next, I am no more, leaving me lighter than I have felt
in a thousand nights.
51
Forge of Legend
by
Komal Salman
Those Damned Lands
Once upon a time, there was a picturesque little village

tucked in a valley called Udyana. The villagers went about
their ordinary lives, terracing and ploughing the land,
tending to their families, crops and livestock. Women
hummed tappay as they did the washing by the stream
every morning, while men lazed around and sipped tea in
hujras and engaged in all kinds of conversation. Outsiders
seldom visited the quiet, serene place unless they were
stopping on their way during their travels. Sans the inter-
familial feuds which occurred every once in a while, the
village was largely peaceful, and the lives of the villagers
uneventful. Little did they know that their tiny little abode
in the countryside would one day become the talk of the
town as far as Delhi, London, Constantinople and
Jerusalem.
One day, a group of travellers stopped at the village

overnight. Whilst they sat at a dhaba, munching on a
breakfast of doodh patti, parathay and omelettes, a group
of young lads, sitting near them, enjoying a game of rung
over doodh patti and pakoray, struck a casual conversation
with the strangers. As was customary in culture, guests
were to be treated kindly and offered assistance if they
needed any. The travellers and the boys exchanged
pleasantries and engaged in small talk.
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Now, amongst the travellers was a Daastaango, a

storyteller. He told the boys tales of the Great Chinese
Empire, their spell-bounding collection of jewellery, art
and the likes. The fame of Chinese Princesses indulging in
priceless silks and precious gems, along with the prosperity
winning favour with the Chinese brought to lands, found its
way to the ears of villagers in Udyana valley. The travellers
left the following afternoon, but their words stayed with the
young boys.
Eager for fame and economic prosperity, the young lads

were excited. But, unfortunately, they knew little more than
farming and had little ashrafian to spare, putting silk out of
the equation. However, the idea of turning to the land
which had provided them livelihood and sustenance for so
long to bestow upon them unknown treasures sounded like
a rather fascinating idea to them. Thus, they decided to
secretly start digging at four corners of the village.
However, their little plan was to be kept secret. Imagine the
embarrassment if one goes digging for treasure hunting to
only find rabbit bones!
For several weeks, the boys dug and dug and dug. The
tunnels had now formed a little connected passageway
running below the village. Earlier, they had decided to dig
for three consecutive full moons. However, they started to
lose hope far sooner but continued to dig anyway for days
on end sporadically after procrastination.
One day, one of the boys flipped over a shovelful of dirt.
In the pile, he saw something coloured. Picking it up, he
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found a small green stone stuck to another white stone. He

pocketed it instantly, for it was something unusual and not
something he had seen above ground. He couldn't contain
his excitement and ran around shrieking. Everyone
gathered around him. When he showed it to his friends, he
was met with hugs, high-fives, and cheers of joy. The boys
decided to look for more of these and wait for a trader to
pass by.
As fate would have it, a trader travelled through the

village the following week. The boys showed him a
handful from the basketful they had collected, wary of
being robbed. The trader grinned and gave them three small
bags full of gold coins in exchange for the gems! The boys
kept selling the stones, and more and more traders began to
visit. Over the years, the village gained a repute for its
excellent mines. As the quality of life improved, so did the
mining techniques. The locals, with time, even learnt to
refine it and cleanse the emeralds to sell them for a higher
price.
The mountains were well suited to mining. The soil was

soft and easy to dig. The deeper they went, the bigger
stones they found. The miners dug some 25 meters deep in
search of bigger stones when they felt a strangeness in the
air. It seemed to cling to them, and they panted more than
usual. Assuming that being so far underground, the air was
musty, they began to widen the tunnel and make airways.
As they worked to widen their working space, one of the
miners felt his digger strike something hard. He began to
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clear the soil around it carefully. Unlike other stones,

which had other stones around them, this gem was
protected by a layer of fine, silverish metallic dust from the
dirt and soil around it. A deep, translucent red, pointed leg
peeked out of the dirt. Confused, he called out to his mates.
Together, the boys unearthed the stone. It was a six-rayed
star-shaped stone, so clean and pure that it didn't even need
cleaning!
Picking it up carefully, the boys took off their turbans,

dusted them off, and anxiously wrapped the stone in cloth.
They warily carried it up the ladders and makeshift
staircases, took it straight to the village Wali, narrated the
story, presented the stone, and asked him what to do. The
Wali called an urgent Jirga to discuss the matter. Seeing
that it was cut in the shape of the Seal of Suleman (A), and
its colour, the consensus was that the stone was sacred. It
was likely to be Yakut, the gemstones on the wings of
Archangel Gabriel of the Jesuits. The Wali respectfully laid
it against cushions in his hujra and announced that should
someone want to pray in the presence of the blessed stone,
they may pay his house a visit anytime they wish. Although
a hujra is a strictly all-male communal place, the Jirga
decided that they are no one to refuse their mothers, sisters,
daughters and wives a blessing God has bestowed upon
them. Thus, two hours each day were reserved for women,
when no man could enter, so their parda would not be
disturbed.
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Whilst the Jirga in the village took place, another council

took place too – at the Palace of Azazeel, the King of Koh-
e-Kaaf. The matter at hand for the jinnaat was unusual yet
urgent. A precious gemstone had been stolen from their
realm and taken to the land across the veil, the mortal
realm. Even though the stone was a drop in the ocean in the
endless wealth of Koh-e-Kaaf, it was theft nevertheless.
Many saw it for what it was, a mistake; however, others
were not so kind. Some saw it as an economic threat, whilst
others viewed it as an act of aggression against the
kingdom or a pre-cursor to war against their entire kind! A
general sense of unhappiness clouded the air.
Shehenshah Azazeel was opposed to animosity against a

far weaker race and thus announced that he would issue the
royal decree on the matter the next morning. It was written
on the wall that action was needed to teach the mortals a
lesson. The King took the advice of his eldest and wisest
daughter, Princess Zeba, the Heiress Apparent, to the
throne of Koh-e-Kaaf, and his council. He also dispatched
an envoy to find out exactly what the villagers were saying
about how the gem had been found and what they intended
to do with it. His suspicions of it being an honest error
committed out of lack of knowledge were confirmed. Over
his lifetime, he had witnessed hundreds of generations. He
had seen the village as a young boy and its people prosper,
all the more reason to not wish to wreak havoc on them.
The next morning, he narrated how the stone had been

found and how the humans had made a temple for it. Thus,
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he declared that whilst he would not endorse the action,

those who still have doubts may do as they please. He
recommended control and giving humankind a chance and
reminded the deozaat and jinnaat that no deo or jinn of
honour would use magic against a race which possesses no
prowess in the arts of sorcery. Despite the apparent taboo
card, like in every society, in Koh-e-Kaaf too, a group of
problematic extremists decided to go against the King's
wishes and took matters into their own hands. The village
fell into a state of utter distress. Children fell ill, the aged
began to talk gibberish, horses refused to eat, and cattle
died mysteriously. Misery oozed out of every door. A
message was passed on to the Wali. There were to be no
more incursions. He returned the message with an offer to
speak to the King of Koh-e-Kaaf, but his request was
denied. Another Jirga was called to discuss the situation, in
which it was decided that the matter would be taken to the
Court of Solomon, the King of all Kings, mortal and
otherwise, the one who could communicate with the
animals, human and jinnaat and angels, the Prophet who
bent the winds to his wishes.
After an arduous journey, Behram Khan, the son of Wali,

reached the Court of Solomon and introduced himself as
his father's representative. When the durbar was called and
he was given a chance to speak, he narrated the entire
incident to Solomon and asked for his help. Upon hearing
his request, Solomon immediately beckoned to three of his
jinn servants.
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“Inform Azazeel that he has been summoned to his

King's court immediately." He told one, "Fetch me four
large stones, two of them white as mild, and two of them
black as coal from your realm." He ordered the second,
"Bring me the gemstone this gentleman speaks of." He
commanded the third. The three of them nodded and flew
off to obey his commands at once.
Within a few moments, the gemstone of Yakut, King

Azazeel, and four rocks were at the feet of the Prophet
Solomon, who placed the four stones alternatively in a
ring-like stand, and pressed them together, sealing them
where they met one another. After that, he placed the
gemstone Yakut upon it. He then addressed Azazeel and
Behram.
“I, the King of all Kings, on earth and of the realms

beyond, the servant of Almighty God alone, offer this Gem
of Yakut as a gift to you, King Azazeel. And with my Seal,
I hereby forbid you and your kind to use magic against
humankind. From this day on, you shall be restricted to
shape-shifting alone in the human realm and to the
strengths and weaknesses of your mortal or animal form.
Your magic, however powerful it may be with the blessing
of Almighty God, shall not be used against a race who does
not and cannot engage in the arts of magic." He said. "The
stone shall be taken to the shaft where it was found, and
from this day on, the tunnel shall be closed off. It shall
remain out of bounds to humankind for eternity until the
sun rises from the West by the will of God, the all-powerful
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the Almighty. It is and shall be the responsibility of you,

your sons, and their sons to ensure so, oh young Behram. It
is a duty you must not fail in until Raphael blows his
trumpet." He finished and dismissed them.
The jinnaat and deozaat build a temple in the shaft in

honour of the gemstone which had granted their kind a
recognition unlike any other, and Azazeel himself an
unprecedented honour. The door to the temple is carefully
guarded, and only the aged and the pious from Koh-e-Kaaf
are allowed to visit. As for the villagers, they seal the
airways and staircases leading to the tunnel as best as
possible. Peace returns once again. The days of peace
stretch into weeks, months, years, decades and centuries.
A couple of millennia later, the valley of Udyana came to
be known as Swat. The Princely State is a vassal of The
British Empire due to its geographical proximity to British
India. The British political agent of Waziristan held more
control in the region than Swati royalty. The mines are
forgotten by the outside world. As fate would have it, just
as a Daastaango brought news of the gemstone trade to the
village, the Qissakhwan took the story of the temple of the
gem of Yakut to the British Court Dehli.
By this point in time, the British, like other colonialists,

like the French, the Dutch, and the Portuguese, had become
infamous for draining the wealth of their colonies, and
rightfully so. Upon inquiries from British officials, the
locals denied the existence of any such gem, knowing fully
well that they would not respect local beliefs. The refusal
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added to the frustration of the political agent in Waziristan,

for the Viceroy had ordered him to have it sent to Her
Majesty, Queen Victoria. He decided to send a raid party to
the mines and find out for himself. To his infuriation, the
locals refused. He was then dispatched a unit of British
Pioneer Sergeants, with the best miners from Australia, to
take possession of the alleged gemstone.
In a turn of events, the unit reached the village. The unit

had orders to "Kill those who resist without quarter."
Fearful of what would ensue, the villagers took to the
wilderness in the mountains to seek refuge. The raiding
party continued with their mission and descended into the
mines. As the party, armed to the teeth, descended into the
second last level of the mines, they found the airways into
the last shaft jammed with mud, stones and steel.
Bypassing it, they decided to take the stairs instead. A
heavy, knobless wood door blocked the entry to the
staircase. Although rotting, owing to the musty air, the
panels of wood crisscrossed upon one another, vertically
and horizontally, but the wood was still intact. It was less
than a minor inconvenience for the raiding party. As they
knocked it down, loose soil, pebbles, rocks, and sand
flowed out of the door. Two raid party members began to
choke under the weight of what crashed into their faces.
Upon seeing this, others were told not to open other
stairways.
The leader of the raiding party addressed his mates. "We

mined through wars; this is merely a staircase. The
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underground is a place others fear; it is where we earn our

wages and always have. As for the gem, there is no treasure
on earth which comes without some silly legend or the
other. Our treasure will be the medals we earn from our
Queen should we find it, the cash they will shower upon us,
and the pretty ladies we get to sleep with. If anyone of you
wants to step out, now is your chance. Demons or
whatever, we go in anyway. We are the people who have
been at the forefront of the Empire; we are those who have
breathed life into the Empire on which the sun never sets;
regardless of what we have to face, our Empire shall stand,
and Her Majesty shall reign supreme. ”
He was answered with claps, hoots and cheers. Clearly,

the party was less than afraid. Like their commanding
officer and the Viceroy, they reeked of the superiority
complex of being white and thus untouchable. The miners
cleared the rubble, and the passage was cleared within a
few hours. As they shovelled away the last bit of dirt, the
miner who did so had a fit of vertigo. The incident aroused
the suspicions of others. However, it was quickly dismissed
as “Bloody Indians, Afghan savages, and these uncivilized
Muslims and their wanton beliefs.” The party pressed
ahead.
Into the last shaft, the air felt different, but lo behold! The
stone was indeed real. It sat in a temple in all its glory. As
instructed, the party put the stone in a large, cushioned case
they had brought with them, should they find it. As they
walked back to the passage, it felt like they were being
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showered with mustard gas, only worse; their eyes turned

teary and red, and their skin itched. Most of the party
collapsed in the shaft, and only two miners managed to
take out the stone. They went as fast as their legs could
carry them.
With each level they climbed up, the stone felt heavier
and heavier. By the time they got to the topmost level of
the mine, their knees felt like they would buckle. They
made their way out by dragging, pushing, and shoving the
weight with them. Little did they know that it was all for
nothing. They caught a glimpse of their commanding
officer grin at them before they blacked out. The officer
passed orders for the team underground to be collected, and
those who made it out were rushed to a hospital. Then, he
personally took the gemstone to the political agent of the
region. They knew that word would spread. Thus they tried
to avoid suspicion by being discreet. Precious as it was, the
gem was taken to the Viceroy personally, with no guard
other than his own. After the Viceroy inspected it, he
shipped it off immediately, with protocol, as a gift for Her
Majesty, Queen Victoria.
In England, at Buckingham Palace, the stone was

carefully inspected by royal jewellers. The best experts,
traders and collectors from the English nobility were
invited to inspect the gem. The Queen decreed that word is
to get out under no circumstances. Those who disobey shall
be punishable by death. The stone was taken away to the
vaults of the Palace. It was to remain a secret buried nearly
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a hundred feet underground as financial security for the

Empire. Should there ever come a time that the British
Empire was under threat of going bankrupt, the stone
would prove to be more than enough financial security.
Back at Koh-e-Kaaf, there was a hue and cry about the

stolen gemstone. King Azazeel was put to the test once
again. His kingdom was under threat from the mortals and
from potential rebellion alike. His fears soon turned to be
true as word reached him that a group of jinnaat had
decided to take matters into their own hands.
The rebels had adopted a three-pronged approach despite

disagreement on the best course of action. One group had
secluded themselves in prayer, also known as chillah. The
jinnaat were to pray until the next full moon to try and
break the power of the Seal of Suleman, thereby freeing
them from being bound to not use their power against
humankind. Another group had set off to Jerusalem, in
disguise as archaeologists, with plans to dig their way to
Suleman (A)’s grave in search of his Seal, for only the Seal
could break its power. The third group was looking out for
potential collaborators to help them find Tabut-e-Sakina,
the only other place the Seal of Suleman may be found.
Whilst the rebels did their work, the Princess, and Heiress
Apparent, Zeba Azazeel, evaluated her options. She had
always feared that her father, being a Deo, was destined to
be put to this test again, as he shall live far longer than
mortals. And with generations, mortals tend to lose their
memory. But, even at her tender age of one thousand, three
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hundred, and nine years, for a jinn, yes, she had seen
enough to know this about humankind. So, seeking the
counsel of her advisors and handmaids, the Princess swore
to return the gemstone to its rightful place before the next
full moon, the power of the Seal, and the sacred order, the
peace, and her kingdom to be broken.
Zeba and her companions sailed to England after they

transformed themselves into humans. The Princess, in all
her glory back at Koh-e-Kaaf, had red eyes which glowed
like orbs, her long locks of fire were a beautiful orange
tinged with red, and her face was a glowing white. She was
usually found in her favourite form, with her entire being
emitting moonlight, her silky, burnt auburn hair braided
with precious stones, her wings like the half moon, and
sparkly feathers of pink fairy dust.
Long ago, two young deozaat, Ahmar and Abyad, had

once fallen in love with the beautiful Princess Zeba
simultaneously. Putting their loyalty to the test, both of
them had shape shifted into serpents. Each of them sat on
one of her shoulders, acting as her guards. Another had
shape-shifted into a double-headed eagle. He used one pair
of eyes to spy for her and another pair of eyes to look out
for her. As for his beaks, one of them was dedicated to
taking communication from Zeba to others, and the other
one brought information back to her. The three jinnaat
shape-shifted with her and accompanied her on her
journey. It was the Eagle jinn, Bhoora Dilkash, who had
brought her news of what was cooking in the rebel camp.
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As a human maiden, she had long black locks with

permanent beach waves, a beautiful dusky complexion,
large hazel brown eyes, a perfectly cut nose and mouth
resting on her radiant face. Any ring she slid onto her
slender fingers and any bangle or bracelet she donned
looked like it was just made for her. Her perfectly
manicured nails, painted in red, fingertips dipped in henna,
and a circle of henna on the back of her hand only added to
her beauty. She dressed up as a princess, which she was,
but that of the mortal world. In a grand outfit, a deep
maroon Jamawar kameez, paired with a silk shalwar with
an intricately hand embroidered shawl from the Swat
region, with beautiful bangles, anklets, and the traditional
haar of gold coins, she paid the Palace a visit under the
guise of the Princess of Swat, she requested an audience
with Her Majesty.
An unsolicited visit from the royalty of a faraway land
was rather surprising. Sceptics viewed it with great
mistrust. However, Princess Zeba has asked for an
audience with a plea for help. She also informed the Palace
officials that the Viceroy had informed her that her request
had been approved. Thus, the House of Saxe-Coburg-
Gotha was obliged to respect her request. The audience was
granted.
“Your Majesty.” Zeba touched her hand to her chest,

bowed down her head, the customary gesture of greeting
royalty back home, and proceeded to kiss Her Majesty's
hand. The Queen, in usual circumstances, was likely to
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have taken offence. Still, she gave the Princess enough

room to pay her respects per her customs.
"Princess." The Queen faked a smile. She was least
interested in hearing the pleas of a young girl, a princess,
from the vassal states of her Empire. "I have little time to
spare. So you may skip the pleasantries. What brings you
here?" she responded.
"I bring you news of a matter of utmost importance. It is

in the interest of both your kingdom and mine." Zeba
answered politely but curtly. This earned her the Queen’s
attention.
“You have a stone in your possession, the gemstone of

Yakut. It must be returned to its rightful place before the
next full moon.” She continued.
The Queen passed her a stern look. “Who is this girl who
thinks it is her place to tell me what needs to be done in my
Palace? Ridiculous!” she thought to herself.
Zeba narrated the history of the stone as the Queen

suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. However, a woman of
immense intelligence and faith knew there must be
something more. The Princess explained the events of the
raid in detail, what happened to the party, and informed her
of the Viceroy who had been killed in Kala Pani. The
Queen had already been informed of all that Princess Zeba
told her. The information was accurate down to the dot, but
it is not always hard to find out things. Thus, Queen
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Victoria continued to listen to Princess Zeba, even though

she consumed her words with a pinch of salt.
Princess Zeba informed the Queen of what had ensued in
Koh-e-Kaaf amongst the jinnaat. The Queen looked at the
Princess for a second as if she had lost her mind. Then, on
second thoughts, she wondered how the Princess knew.
Then, presuming she had yet to find a piece of the puzzle,
she allowed Zeba to continue talking.
“Should the jinnaat reach the tomb of Suleman, Solomon,

as you know him, there shall be a conflict between the
Jews, Christians and Muslims, for all of us hold him
sacred. The Ottoman empire stretches as far as the Middle
East. For any religious conflict or outrage in Jerusalem,
they shall blame the British. Kaiser Wilhelm of Prussia, the
friend of the Muslims, is likely to side with them. The
Jewish community also holds Solomon in high regard. I do
not need to reiterate their importance to your Empire.
Besides external threats which may potentially spiral into
unrest across the continent, the Empire itself is at risk of
rebellion. This time, King Solomon is no longer around to
save any of us from the wrath of the jinnaat.” Princess
Zeba continued, trying to explain the gravity of the
situation to Queen Victoria.
“My dear Princess, you utter words with utmost
confidence, words which would hold true should the events
you have mentioned occur, but if I may ask, why is an
Indian princess worried about the British Crown? I mean
no offence, but it would make one a little curious, don’t
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you think?” the Queen addressed Zeba with a hint of

sarcasm in her voice.
“Your Majesty, I am not worried about the British
Crown. I am here for my people, my kingdom, and peace in
my lands. I also know neither of these would be matters for
you to concern yourself with. Hence, I am telling you only
what you shall be worried about.” Princess Zeba replied
firmly as she made eye contact with the Queen.
The Queen read her eyes. She was bold, brave and loyal
to her kingdom and subjects. She would not be easy to
dissuade.
“Can you prove what you have told me, Princess?”

inquired the Queen.
“On one condition.” Replied Zeba.
“Oh my dear, I do not think you are in the position to

make demands now, are you?” the Queen retorted.
"I was unaware that the Queen of such a great empire

does not care for the royal word, which is sacrosanct. And
not only does she disrespect it by asking for proof, but she
also turns down demands for it without lending them an
ear." Princess Zeba was polite yet assertive. “You may ride
your horse to Westminster Abbey. In that case, we will see
each other again in five minutes. Should you not arrive,
you shall remain unaware of the truth of many things
around you.” She continued.
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The Queen blinked once, shocked, as she gathered her

thoughts to remind the Princess of her place. She blinked
twice, and the Princess to see the Princess walk out of the
door. The Queen felt dizziness take over her. Something
was amiss. Whilst the Queen used every ounce of her
existence to fight the fainting feeling, Victoria decided
against calling for help.
Ahmar and Abyad had already cleared the way for her.
They had shape-shifted into two white men and stolen the
uniform of palace guards before they took one of the doors
to the vault. Bhoora Dilkash, now a parrot, flew to her.
This was her cue that the coast had been cleared. Princess
Zeba shot towards the vault which held the stone.
Her Majesty mustered all the courage she could and
exited the hall, ordering the guards to immediately ready a
horse for her.
The guards exchanged worried glances. “B..but…Your
Majest…” said one, “I said, NOW!” the Queen thundered.
“Regardless of what would follow upon this breach of

protocol, it could not be worse than the Queen’s anger.”
Thought the guard as he shut up and ran towards the
stables.
Princess Zeba was led by the Parrot to the vault door

upon which her men, or jinnaat, stood guard. Upon her
presence, the security alarms began to blare. Turning
herself deaf to the shrill sound and that of the Palace Guard
running towards the vault, she broke the glass of the
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cabinet which held the gemstone with a little tap. Although

immune to water blasts in her true form, as a mortal, they
hurt her eyes as she whisked away the stone. She shot out
to the stables with her companions behind her.
The Palace fell into a state of complete disarray. Princess

Zeba rode ahead to Westminster Abbey with the gemstone.
Ahmar and Abyad rode behind her, still dressed as palace
guards, keeping their horses just behind her. No onlooker
figured that they were protecting her rather than trying to
catch her. The Queen rode behind them to Westminster
Abbey all by herself. Just behind the Queen were the stable
boys, who did not know what to do other than follow Her
Majesty to ensure her safety. Behind them were the real
Palace Royal Guard and the city’s mounted constabulary.
Princess Zeba was forbidden to use her magic sans shape-

shifting in the human realm. She wished she could have
cast a spell on her horse. However, as all riders become one
with the horse they ride, so did she. Their hearts beat
together as her filly galloped faster and faster. It broke the
sound barrier, sending an airwave behind her, causing
everyone to slow down. The horse appeared to be flying or
levitating, running at full speed with its hooves not
touching the ground even for a second. Its mane few into
her face as she clutched at it as a lot of startled onlookers
gathered around to see a woman riding a bareback,
galloping horse!
The first to reach the Abbey, the Princess rushed to place
the stone on the wood-carved stone in the centre. She
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Forge of Legend
hoped with everything in her heart that the legend of the

stone in the chair being one of those in Solomon's Crown
would be true. As the chair flew with the stone, the Abbey
turned into a theatre. On its walls played the story as
Princess Zeba stood her ground firmly just in front of it.
The Queen and her advisors dropped all misgivings at

once. Although Zeba’s conduct was punishable, this was
truly extraordinary. Many, including the Queen, began to
doubt the identity of Zeba herself, and rightfully so.
However, neither of them said it out loud. Their ill-givings
leaned towards the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Tzars of
Russia, the Ottomans, the Empire of Germany, and the
Kingdom of Prussia. Human or which, they had most
certainly not sent Princess Zeba. The Queen immediately
ordered the Royal Navy to escort Princess Zeba to India,
set her sailing on the highest speed ship available, and
wrote a letter to the Prince of Swat, stating that she had
permitted the stone to be returned due to circumstances. It
was to be restored to its rightful place immediately.
A few days later, as the ship crossed the Suez Canal, she
stopped in her tracks. The Captain had orders not to rest
anywhere overnight, and the staff worked in shifts. He
called all hands aboard on deck and frantically shouted
orders to set her off again and guard the Princess's cabin
and the gem. As they looked around, a small boat with no
oars was headed straight towards the ship. On it, with a
stick, was a lantern, which glowed so brightly that they
could feel the warmth radiating from it. Spellbound and
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Those Damned Lands
frightened, they could do little more than wait and try to

sail. Regardless of how hard they tried to start up her
engine again, it coughed and spluttered before dying out
again; she just wouldn't budge. The lone man aboard the
tiny boat signalled to the Captain to allow him on board.
The Captain felt like his heart was in his throat. However,
he whispered a cracked refusal. To the Captain's
bewilderment, the boat stayed in her place, but the man had
disappeared. Amid the chaos, the Princess heard a sharp
rap at her cabin's door. She answered the door to find a
young man she had never seen before. Mildly surprised,
she had never seen a mortal so handsome, with such
powerful an aura and a face which radiated noor.
“Assalam-o-Alaikum Princess Zeba.” He addressed her
directly. “You are the Princess of Koh-e-Kaaf, and I am
little but a human messenger. Please excuse the disrespect."
The Princess, shocked, tried to meet his gaze, but he turned
his eyes to the floor.
She was increasingly bewildered at this strange man's

familiarity with local custom, or Pakhtun and Muslim
custom rather, and knowledge of her identity, so she knew
that he was no normal being. She politely nodded silently,
expecting him to go on. "Your destination is
Constantinople, not India. You shall find the help you Seek
at the Ottoman Court.” Without waiting for an answer, he
stood there, waiting for her to close her eyes to blink.
When she opened them, he was gone.
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Forge of Legend
As soon as he left, the ship came to life again. She called

out to the Captain and ordered him to change course. He
stared at her with a blank expression on his face, for the
ship had already changed its course to Constantinople. But,
despite being afraid out of his wits, neither his guts nor his
place allowed him to question the mysterious Princess.
The same night the Ottoman Court, The Caliph, Sultan

Abdul Hameed II, noticed a stranger praying Tahajjud right
next to him in his private chambers. The stranger said
Salam behind the Sultan, as one does with an Imam.
Surprised and confused, the Sultan asked, "Oh stranger,
who are you, and how did you find your way into my
chambers unnoticed?" he inquired.
“Assalam-o-Alaikum Sultan. I am Khizar." The stranger
answered and put forward his hand to greet the Caliph.
Immediately understanding what it meant, the Sultan
smiled. “Welcome to my humble Court, oh blessed servant
of Allah. How can I, the Caliph of the Ummah and the
humble servant of my Lord, help you?”
Hazrat Khizar (A) repeated to the Caliph what he had

said to the Princess earlier. “I am but a messenger.” He
said. "You are about to be put to the test, Abdul Hameed. I
can only advise you to remember that turning away
someone who comes with a plea for help is unlike a man, a
Sultan, and the Caliph of the Muslim World.”
“Your advice is sacred to this servant of Allah. Therefore,

I shall hold it only second to Quran, the Book of Allah, and
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Those Damned Lands
the Ahadith and Sunnah, the words and actions of the Last
Prophet of Allah, Muhammad (S).” the Sultan answered
him respectfully. “Is there something you wish for me to
bring to you Hazrat?” he continued.
“I would like to have some water.” Hazrat Khizar (A)

told him.
As the Sultan fetched a glass of water from his bedside

and returned to the balcony where he was praying earlier,
Hazrat Khizar (A) was nowhere to be seen.
The Caliph smiled, prayed an extra two Rakat of Nafl

prayer, and prayed to Allah to give him the strength to face
the upcoming test.
The next morning, the ship carrying Princess Zeba docks

at the ports of Constantinople. She is escorted to the
Ottoman Court as an Indian Princess, where she requested
an urgent audience with the Sultan. However, this time, the
odds are in her favour. Little does she know that the same
stranger who visited her had also visited the Caliph and
instructed him to help her. She knew neither his name nor
his stature to Muslims. The Sultan met her the same
afternoon, and she explained the entire situation to him.
“We need you in Swat. My kingdom, my people, and my

lands need you. The Seal of Solomon was powerful only in
the hands of the King of the time, the King of all Kings,
humans, and the jinnaat. Today, you are the only Sultan
whose kingship goes beyond the boundaries of his
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Forge of Legend
kingdom. Thus, I am here with this rather unusual and

bizarre call for help.” She finishes.
To her marvel, the Sultan agreed to travel instantly. She
has so many questions. How and why did a King abandon
his kingdom for a Princess he does not know, has never
met, and is unlikely to have heard of? However, as fate
would have it, a few days later, Princess Zeba of Koh-e-
Kaaf, Sultan Abdul Hameed II, and the gemstone reached
Swat.
Once in Swat, Zeba, Ahmar, Abyad, Bhoora Dilkash, and
Sultan Abdul Hameed made their way straight to the
emerald mines. They descended into the last shaft and
stood around the temple. The Sultan kneeled on his knees
and kissed the cracked imprint of the Seal of Solomon.
Then, he stood up again and called out loudly to the King.
"Oh Azazeel, King of Koh-e-Kaaf, I am Sultan Abdul
Hameed, the Caliph of the Muslim World, the servant of
Allah, and the follower of Hazrat Suleman (A). Suleman
(A) was the King of all Kings, of both your world and
mine, whilst I am the Sultan of my Kingdom alone. I do not
yield his power, nor do I have his Seal; I know you shall
not answer my call, but do not forget that I have the word
of my Lord." The Sultan waited for an answer. As he had
anticipated, Azazeel had refused to be summoned by a
mortal Sultan. Thus, the Sultan recited Surah-e-Jinn till
Azazeel was forced to show himself.
Surah e Jinn had shaken the fires, which shaped into the
Fortress of Azazeel. His mighty Castle of Fire would have
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Those Damned Lands
turned to embers should he have not left. He felt an

invisible binding chain pulling him towards the mine. He
used all his might to try and fight the force, but it was too
strong. Such was the power of the word of Allah.
"You should not have come here, Sultan." Azazeel

roared.
"There are always things we shouldn't do but have to do

anyway." Replied the Sultan.
"I shall not comply with the orders of a mortal." Declared

Azazeel. “You may be the Sultan of Muslims; you are but
another mortal to me." He continued.
“In that case, we shall settle this like Kings. I, Sultan

Abdul Hameed, Caliph of the Muslim world, challenge
you, Shehenshah Azazeel, King of Koh-e-Kaaf, to a
swordfight.” Declared the Sultan.
The King of Deozaat was in no position to refuse.
Refusing a swordfight was unlike a king or any man or jinn
of honour. More so, it was not only Azazeel who was there.
The recitation had shaken up all the jinnaat in Koh-e-Kaaf
were shaken. They showed up in huge numbers; as many of
them as could possibly fit in the shaft were packed in there.
To turn away a mere mortal, however, famed a swordsman
may be, would not only put a question mark on the
credibility of his prowess as a fighter, but the insult would
also threaten his kingship. "I accept," Azazeel called. “We
have 10 minutes to prepare for battle. Draw the ring.” He
announced.
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Forge of Legend
The call for battle was made. The jinaat clapped glee,
seeing that the Sultan had no armour and was armed with
only a sword around his waist. Azazeel, on the other hand,
was at the apparent advantage, for he shape-shifted into a
centaur. Then, with his broad chest glowing white with fire,
his sword and hooves of smelted red hot iron, eyes on fire,
pursed lips which made his mouth look like it had
disappeared, and mane of embers, he charged for the
Sultan.
The brave Sultan stood his ground, unafraid, with his

expression unchanged. Then, holding the charging
Azazeel’s gaze, he pulled the sword out of his scabbard.
The sight of it alone made the Shehehshah of Koh-e-Kaaf
stop in his tracks for a split second. It was the Zulfiqar. The
solid scissor-like double-bladed weapon was the sword of
Ali (R), a sword believed to have been descended from the
heavens. The Prophet (S) had prayed to Allah for a sword
for Ali ibn Abu Talib after Hazrat Ali (R)'s sword had
broken, upon which the sword had appeared in the hands of
the Prophet Muhammad (S), which he (S) had presented to
Ali (R).
Their swords clanged above their heads, below their

knees. The Sultan blocked strike after strike as Azazeel
swung his weapon like a madman. For several minutes, the
fight continued. Finally, Azazeel cornered Abdul Hameed
and pushed ahead till the Sultan was less than two feet
away from the edge of the ring. Azazeel swung his sword
straight at the Sultan's chest. To his disbelief, the Sultan's
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Those Damned Lands
clothes burnt, but his sword did not so much as singe him.
However, the Sultan was down on his knees. Aiming to
deliver the final blow, Azazeel used all this might and
delivered a blow so powerful and so close that when the
Sultan ducked, it burnt the Sultan's hat, throwing Azazeel
off balance. Seizing the moment, the Sultan swung the
Zulfiqar and held it to Azazeel’s throat. Perspiring, Azazeel
threw away his weapon.
"It is not you who has defeated me, Abdul Hameed; I

have been defeated by the Zulfiqar, a sword against which
no being, of clay or fire, has ever won." Azazeel accepted
gracefully. “I, the King of Koh-e-Kaaf, accept that I have
been bested, and I shall obey the command you have for
me." He finished his sentence.
The Sultan smiled. “You are a true King, oh Azazeel.” He

said. “Those truly honourable lower their gaze but never
bow down their heads, even in the face of defeat." He
continued.
Sultan Abdul Hameed walked to the ring of four rocks,

which had held the stone for so many years. He kneeled
down, kissed them where they had been stamped with the
Seal of Suleman, touched his nose and forehead to it, and
then resealed the stones just below the sacred Seal with his
own ring. Then, he stood up, replaced the Stone of Yakut
back on the ring of four rocks, and announced, “I, Sultan
Abdul Hameed, the servant of Allah, follower of Suleman,
and Caliph of the Ummah have resealed what the Prophet
of Allah, Hazrat Suleman (A) decreed to be sealed.
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Forge of Legend
Therefore, the agreement made at the Court of Suleman

between the beings of Koh-e-Kaaf, and the mortal world,
are now binding upon both the jinnaat and humankind. It
shall stay so, till the Day of Judgement, till Allah wills it
so.”
Silence fell upon the shaft. The Sultan turned to Azazeel.

“If I may, I shall now take my leave from your realm,
Shehenshah Azazeel.”
Azazeel nodded. "Yes, you may, Sultan. You are indeed

as brave as you sound in the legends that surround you.
But, before you leave, there is a question I would like to
pose, should you not take offence, Sultan."
The Sultan nodded in affirmative.
"How did my sword not harm you beyond singing your

clothes? Fire is deadly to mortals, is it not?" he asked,
confused and surprised.
The Sultan chuckled. “I told you, King Azazeel, I have

the word of Allah with me. I did not come unarmed." So
says the Sultan as he rips away his burnt shirt to reveal an
illuminated, woodblock printed, linen Quran Jaama. "Fire
is deadly to humans; the word of Allah is immune to all his
creations, including fire." The Sultan answered.
As the jinnaat returned to Koh-e-Kaaf, many outraged

and dejected, the Sultan took to the stairs and made his way
out of the mine. He was met with his guard, his horses, and
all the villagers of "name". The aged and the young, men
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Those Damned Lands
and women, all wished for the honour of greeting their

Sultan and saviour. He informed his soldiers that he would
allow them some time.
A charpoy was brought for him, and on it was spread the

finest of sheets and gaotakkiye from the Wali’s home. They
served him doodhpatti with Durbish whilst each of the
villagers took their turn to kiss his hand. He answered each
Salam with “Wa Alaikum As Salam” and gave each
villager a prayer whilst they came to meet him one by one.
The Sultan then bid farewell to the villagers to the Princess
and thanked her for all she had done to keep the peace
before he made his journey back to Karachi to set sail for
Constantinople.
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Forge of Legend
Glossary
Ashrafian: gold or silver coins, used instead of currency

Chillah: a form of continuous worship in seclusion
Daastaango: oral storytellers of Urdu and Persian tales
Deo: a male, evil, supernatural spirit, as large as a giant, a

kind of djinn
Deozaat: plural for deo/from the deo-kind (like humakind)
Dhaba: a makeshift roadside restaurant
Doodh patti: black tea powder brewed in fresh milk
Durbish: a traditional Swati dessert
Gaotakkiye: large, oval, oblong, sturdy cushions used as

back rests
Hazrat: A suffix used for men and women who command a

certain level of respect, the Prophets, their companions,
angels, Sufi’s, etc.
Hujra: all-male communal spaces
Jamawar: an expensive variety of cloth used for formal

dresses, gilded with gold or silver
Jinn/Jinnaat: singular and plural for djinns
Jirga: council of elders
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Those Damned Lands
Koh-e-Kaaf: the abode of the djinns and fairies in Middle

Eastern, Central Asian, Persian and South Asian tradition
Nafl: non-obligatory Muslim prayer
Noor: literally, light; figuratively, the glow on a holy

person’s face
Pakoray: a Pakistani snack; made from potatoes, onions,

bringles or green chillies dipped in a batter a batter of
chickpea flour and an assortment of spices.
Parathay: oiled flatbread
Parda: the ancient cultural custom of women veiling

themselves outside the home (which is now both, a
cultural and a religious custom)
Qissakhwan: oral storytellers of Pashto tales
Quran Jaama: a garment with protective verses from

the Quran
Rakat: one complete unit of Muslim prayer
Rung: a trick-taking card game native to Pakistan
Tabut-e-Sakina: Arc of the Covenant
Tappay: couplets of musical or poetic rhymes
Wali: the leader of a village/area/state in Pakistani

Pakhtun and Afghan tradition
83
The Phenomenal Lahore
by
Rida Ashraf
Those Damned Lands
“Hello, listeners. It's pleasant to be back with you in the

early morning in this wonderful weather in front of the
speaker with a strong cup of tea because rain is for tea. I
was constantly thinking about which song should be on top
today, and my mind was only humming with romantic
tunes.”
RJ smiles, swinging the cup in the air and moving the

microphone closer to her face. “So here we go with our first
song, ‘hona tha -hua pyar mere yar’
.” Background music
beeps slowly, “Enjoy listeners, we will continue talking
after this melodious song break by Atif Aslam.”
“I wish they could update the weather forecast based on

the exact location, or maybe I'm the only one who doesn't
know how to do so. It's been days since they predicted
thunderstorms in Defence, but other than humidity, there's
nothing around me and this air conditioner is throwing a
temper tantrum - not romantic at all,” she bursts out and
lowers the radio volume. “And what on earth is this RJ
feeling romantic about the weather? On top of that, my
boss wants me to write an article about the incredible and
glorious history of this city, Lahore. Aahhh… that's
creepy.” She arrives at a halt at the red light, rubbing her
hands and shaking her right leg. “Where should I begin?”
She contemplated any useful suggestion while looking out
the car window, but found nothing but the charisma and
85
heavenly peace of historical sites like Badshahi mosque to

write about in the essay.
Her phone beeps simultaneously, and she became
irritated when she read the name; it was her colleague. “Let
us gather at Pak Tea House and get some information from
literary people.” After reading that, she reached a new level
of resentment, and the lights turned red. She was short of
time to react. Her clever strategy to gather material from
the internet, organize it all lyrically and produce another
piece for the great Lahore lovers failed. And now she
needed to waste time listening to some of the insane poets
and then write one from scratch using the internet.
She glanced at the white building; it was the first time she
had visited the subcontinent's galaxy of literature. Her
colleague gestured with her hand. She smacked her bag on
the table and gave a stir-crazy expression. “Don't tell me
we're sitting here wasting our time discussing Lahore's rich
culture and then going home because I could write it down
without wasting my time.”
Her colleague smiled and questioned about her work

success so far. “Are you serious? I was assigned to this
assignment last night, and today, out of nowhere, you
called to see how much I had completed. How much can a
person accomplish in a single day?”
“So you did nothing. Right?” Arooj raised her left

eyebrow.
“I did a little bit,” she said in a low voice.
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Those Damned Lands
Arooj was her senior, and it had been more than a year
since she had worked with her and understood how difficult
it could be if things did not go her way, as well as how
supportive she is in reaching a conclusion and assisting her
team. She was an excellent team leader. She was familiar
with Mariyam and her strategies, but this time she was
determined to win the competition and secure the slot with
a fresh, unique, and well-written piece.
“I met someone a few weeks ago. He might be able to

assist us in writing something new and authentic. Before
partition, he used to visit here with his father as a child.”
“Oh woo...that sounds fantastic. He must be a writer or

poet as well,” Mariyam inquires, her eyes widening with
delight as if she had discovered a diamond beneath the coal
without much effort. “No, he is not,” she responds, staring
at the door. He was standing next to Mariyam at the table
before she could react or say anything else. “Please
welcome Mr. Jamal. He bears the imprint of the place in his
heart.”
He was bald, slender, and of average height, with a dusky

complexion and a scruffy white beard, yet his eyes drew
the attention of others. They had both a spark and a
gentleness to them. He greeted them and apologized for
keeping them waiting so long, especially at a place that has
no affection or admiration for them while staring at
Mariyam.
87
“Not at all, sir; in fact, I am grateful that you agreed to

meet us today.”
“That is very humble of you.”
“So you're neither a writer nor a poet, Jamal Sahib. “How

can you help us?” Mariyam's inquiry was bold and direct,
almost an insult to Arooj, who glared at her.
“I'm not sure what kind of help I can provide, but Arooj
beta asked me to join today.” He takes a one-minute delay
before asking, “Would you prefer tea or coffee?”
“We certainly know a lot about the city and its charisma,
but I want something distinct and different that adds a new
viewpoint to the ideas of readers and viewers.” Arooj
eventually expresses her concern while sipping her coffee.
“Lahore has a history; many unfurled stories, both happy
and sad. It's not an easy topic to write about. Lahore's
narrative is difficult in and of itself. What have you come
up with so far?”
Arooj signals Mariyam to discuss her work with him, but

she is undoubtedly dissatisfied because they don't have
much to say. “Well! I didn't have much time, so I read
about the Badshahi Mosque, Shalimar Bagh, Mughals, and
everything else.” Mariyam's perspective added to their
discomfort following the snarky query about his
knowledge. “But this is not what I want to share,” Arooj
adds abruptly to cover her.
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Those Damned Lands
“These sites will always be new if we bring out the

genuine stories in their pure essence and present them to
everyone to enjoy the richness while mourning for the
miseries, tragedies, and losses. Many people may be
unaware of it, but instead of looking for these wandering
stories on every street or corner, they are preoccupied with
adoring the structure. Have you ever noticed how the same
concept is repeated over and over? Why? Because no one is
interested in exposing the true and incredibly rich stories
that are the realities of behind-the-scenes. Take a glance at
this cafe, which was formerly known as the Indian Tea
House.” He paused for a moment, and looked around at the
paintings of famous poets and writers of his time who were
once his friends and mentors, from adoring interiors to
furniture providing an ambivalence desired by the new
generation but still gets flashbacks of his time, when things
were ordinary and people were simpler.
“However, it's now known as Pak Tea House. What a

disaster for this area and this city,” he exclaims.
“What’s the tragedy in it? It is obvious to change the

name according to the new identity,” Mariyam utters
bluntly, once again.
“A new identity? Hmmmm… Lahore has always been a

hub for literature, writers, poets, activities, and, above all,
adventure. It used to attract visitors from all over the
subcontinent, and even the British fell in love with the
city's character and beauty. Nobody ever said the
Subcontinent was a literary hub, or that Pakistan or India
89
were literary hubs, but Lahore is.” His eyes widened at the
mention of Lahore, and he continued, “I would prefer to
call it Lahore tea house before or after division. So the
charm of this intellectual oasis endures.” He takes another
drink of tea from a cream-colored china pot.
For the first time, both paused for a few moments to look
at the heading written in bold words on Arooj's notebook
and remained silent for a few moments, considering and
evaluating what he said. Arooj had a relationship with this
site, but she came here today to gather some knowledge
and utilize it later for business, but from a completely
different perspective. Mariyam, on the other hand, saw this
Pak tea house as a blank slate. She was admiring the
interior design and the artwork on the walls. Some were
quite famous ones in her dictionary but there were some
she barely knew about.
Kabhi Fursat mile tu Chale an
Hum ne cheeni k dabay main chupa rakhi hai,
tumhare hissy ki Elachi
They laughed at this. Despite the fact that it was written

not long ago by a classic poet, he remembered it.
“You know what? When I was a kid, I used to come here

with my baba and chacha. A girl with dusky skin, heavy
brows, and almond eyes, as well as a mad poet, used to
visit here as well. She once told me, ‘Look, Jamal, poetry
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Those Damned Lands
evolves but remains connected to our souls and times too.’

So never, ever pass judgment on a generation or their
writing. Praise, accept, and celebrate it because these words
and rhymes reflect their feelings, and they find pleasure and
peace in them.” His eyes were moist to share, just like
every other person who is sincerely in love with someone,
moment, or thing.
Ye Jo Lahore Se Mohabbat Hai
Ye Kisi Aur Se Mohabbat Hai
“Of course, there's always a reason to love something

unconditionally,” he says as he raises the teacup to
applause. “She was my and my chacha's first love, and she
was butchered right before my eyes.” He came to a halt,
causing their hearts to skip a beat, their lips to move but not
say anything, and their gazes to lock on each other's faces.
The change in his expression and the gravity in his voice
happened in less than a minute.
“But she is not the reason I adore Lahore; she is the

reason I fell in love with Lahore. This location has a unique
beauty that you will never find.”
Aur Woh Aur Tum Nahi Shayad
Mujh Ko Jis Aur Se Mohabbat Hai
Ye Hun Main Aur Ye Meri Tasvir
Dekh Le Ghaur Se Mohabbat Hai
Bachpana Kam-sini Javani Aj
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Tere Har Daur Se Mohabbat Hai

Ek Tahzīb Hai Mujhe Maqsud
Mujh Ko Ik Daur Se Mohabbat Hai
Us Ki Har Tarz Mujh Ko Bhati Hai
Us Ke Har Taur Se Mohabbat Hai
Arooj gathers herself to ask, “So, what do you mean by

the Lahore narrative and this term 'glorifying the
buildings'?”
And finally, a much-awaited thunderstorm by Lahore

weather forecast, and Mariyam as well, was pouring down.
“Well, Lahore was never a site of rich architecture and

magnificent buildings for me, and people used to live here
before, but now it is for many people. That is why they are
eager to construct more. But, as you can see, they still
glorify new development schemes that add luxury to their
lifestyle, but not a metro station that is used by the general
public. Instead of writing on buildings, write on people
who live here or find shelter here,” he pauses.
“The stories are all around us; we simply need to look for
them and want to share them with others. Many artists,
poets, and authors have been overlooked in this city, but it
is still happening at this moment. We completely disregard
an artist's right to be paid in the name of spirituality. This is
why many of them end up seeking shelter under the open
sky with a hungry stomach, children despising their
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occupation, and roaming the streets with stories that are

still untold.”
“But we did write about Ghalib, Meer, and Faraz.”
Mariyam adds her voice for the first time.
“We just know about the well-known ones. However, we

rarely write about their poverty and situations. We believe
intellectuals are dervish and have no right to be pampered.
My point is not just for artists, but for everyone. Many tales
of laborers were left behind to share while creating this
opulent Mughal Empire and its wonderful monuments.
Never mind, set those stories aside. Let us begin here.
Write about ordinary people, their problems, triumphs, and
tragedies. Bring those stories out and tell them to people.
Go ahead and highlight walking human stories in your
writing. Don't simply call Lahore “the phenomenal Lahore”
because of its architecture, but also because of the people
who have been hospitable and have blended into its culture
and hospitality.”
Their cups were empty by now.
“I should go now. It's raining outside, and my wife is

probably looking for me.”
Jamal sahib says as they part ways, “Today, while going

back, do watch individuals around you and their
expressions in this rain. Maybe you'll come up with
something great to produce.”
93
She moves towards her with a nod of her head, folds

down in her seat, takes a big breath, and turns on the radio.
Another RJ was complimenting the rain. She starts driving
but is aware of her surroundings. Some were riding
motorcycles and cars, taking rickshaws, or walking. People
used to sleep on pavements but now were at the bus stop
benches and beneath bridge shades for safe shelter while
waiting for the rain to end. Some people went out in their
cars to enjoy the weather. The signal turns red near a well-
known building constructed prior to the partition. Red and
orange lights are used to illuminate the structure. The
structure had changed somewhat, but there was an old man
begging for the rain to stop sooner so he could get to his
final destination - his home with this fruit cart. She keeps
staring at him till the light turns green. Today, that well-
known structure has altered her story. She shifted the focus
of her article. Instead of writing about iconic structures and
landmarks, focused on people's stories that were making
the city spectacular in many ways. The division of culture
and prestige in the same city. Her thoughts were still
unstructured, but she was determined to meet more people
and discover more locations that had been neglected or
overshadowed for decades due to magnificent architecture
in order to bring a genuine paper.
“This song is irrelevant, but it would undoubtedly apply

to any of our situations like a wish for pakoras, tea, ice
cream, or a long drive with a loved one,” RJ tells a classic
musical couplet. Her voice was captivating.
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Aj phir dil ne ik tamana ki hai,

Aj phir dil ko ik khayal aya,
Indeed, her heart wished for something today. She smiles,

wipes the rainwater from the front window, and starts the
car as the signal turns green.
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Bay’ah of Altamas
by
Shoaib Hadeed
Those Damned Lands
Chapter 1
Damp night. There is static in the atmosphere. The

drizzling sound I hear in my sleep wakes me up from my
drunken slumber.
There is a duel in the middle of the room. A Djinn and a

samurai, airborne, exchanging blows. The samurai is
holding a sabre lithe and deathly, trying to knock out the
Djinn. After a quick manoeuvre, the Djinn and I lock eyes
for a brief second, and he quickly vanishes through the
window. The samurai chases, leaving fluttering curtains
behind. It all happened in mere seconds; surprisingly, I
wasn't taken aback by what I had just witnessed.
I get off my bed, groggy, trying to make it to the window

to shut them close. As I drew the curtains, which have now
settled down, I was confused that they were shut. The
samurai is standing with his back towards me. I see his
hair, black as the night, falling on his shoulders, and at that
moment, he turns his head and smiles.
I reach out to touch him to see if this all is real, only to

realize the glass feels cold. The samurai points to my left
hand and makes a gesture, wanting me to imitate his
actions. His thumb is rubbing his ring finger. He nods at me
as my hand rubs my thumb and ring finger as if I'm feeling
the texture of a printed paper. The hand on the glass
window starts to slide through as if it was water.
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ah of Altamas
Chapter 2
It felt like water, cold and wet. As soon as I passed through

the glass, I realized I was no longer inside my room. I spin
around to rush back to the warmth of my bed, which would
keep me safe from this dream, but it no longer exists. It's
Just a white textured wall. My hands hastily searched the
wall for a secret door which led me to this mysterious
room. Frustrated, I searched without success. Further down
the room, there is a door half open, and I can see boxes
piled up with labels on them which can't be interpreted. It's
too far away to read the signs. The gigantic hall is
mysteriously daunting.
Someone zips across the door and is shouting instructions

across the hall in some language alien to me. I slowly walk
towards the door to investigate where all this is happening.
It's getting bigger. The crates are huge, like houses on
wheels. I hear a shout that startles me. Someone is darting
towards me. My instincts of fight and flight kick in. I rush
back to the wall, desperately trying to search for a clue as
my lungs are ready to explode from this marathon. With all
the struggle, my eyes fall on my finger, and there is a dark
mark, a pattern of symbols which was never there before. I
strike my thumb on it to rub off this ink, and the feelings of
cold and wetness return.1
1Bay,yah: Term from the Quran; Oath of allegiance described in Surah Al

Fath, Ayat 18. 48:18s
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Chapter 3
It's a calm and beautiful sight. The only thing is, my heart
is pounding against my chest as if it's trying to find an
escape from this body. Just a few minutes ago, I was in my
bed, and it was night. Now, the sun is up, and it's the
middle of the day. A huge window is inside a room that
only has my shadow accompanying me. I move closer to
see what the view outside is like. I reach closer and realize
I'm a hundred stories above. The fear of heights kicks in. I
instantly hold on to the glass for support so that my knees
don't give up.
I blink a few times to get used to the light, and I realize

I'm back in the warehouse. The room with only walls and a
door. How is this happening? I notice my thumb has been
holding on to these symbols and still trying to scrape them
off. Outside the door, two people are arguing. Suddenly,
one of them notices and turns his head towards me. I panic
as they start shouting in their alien language, all the while
rushing towards me. I'm back in flight mode. Quickly, I
turn around and push through the wall while the wall
pushes back. My finger stings like it's being held over a
candle, and my thumb is trying to ease that itch. The
feeling of cold and wetness is back. Again, I'm blinded by
the sun in my eyes and realize I've returned a hundred
stories above the ground.
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ah of Altamas
Chapter 4
Something is sitting on my chest, not letting me get up

from this nightmare. It's sleep paralysis, for sure. The
marks on my finger are now a tattoo. I gather my courage
and get up. My forehead starts to shrink when I notice my
reflection in the window and it's staring at me. It's not me!
Cautiously, I start moving towards the window. Every step
is carefully planted to not lose the ground. As I reach
closer, the face staring at me is unrecognizable. I have seen
it somewhere. It starts to dawn upon me. This face was
outside my bedroom window before this nightmare began.
It was the face of the samurai.
My feet start shaking, and I'm now backing away from

the reflection. But this time, a sense of fight urges me to
hold my ground. It's either this room or the warehouse.
"Not the warehouse!" I ponder. I can't handle those people
speaking in some language that I don't even recognize.
"Breathe!" I say to myself as if it would help me make
sense of the situation. The reflection, although I'm wearing
white the face has a darker tone creating a contrast. The
hair is falling on the shoulders, and it looks a lot taller.
"Finally, you've calmed down!" A voice echoes inside the

room. My head spun around to see where the sound came
from. Nothing! Just my shadow and the walls. "I thought
you were going to keep running!" Again, it echoes. "Come
closer; pull yourself together."
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Those Damned Lands
Come closer? Come closer to what? I'm panicking. "To

the window." The sound tells me as if it's tired of this silly
game already. I carefully take a few steps towards the glass
to examine if his voice is only in my head.
"It would have been easier if you had come to this place
the first time. I couldn't help you there as it would confuse
you a lot more and could get us in trouble." Trouble?! What
is this? What am I talking about? What is this reflection
talking about? Can I wake up already?!
"You're awake! I can explain everything, but first, you
need to calm down and get a hold of yourself."
Surely, I'm losing my mind. Surely, this reflection is not

talking to me.
"Calm down! I can tell you a joke if it helps." Yeah, a

joke would surely help this situation. I'm agitated. "It's
good, you'll like it! So, three guys are at a bar. One is from
Harvard, one from Cambridge and the last is from
LUMS…."
I've heard this before. Why is my mind telling me jokes? I

know why! Because I'm losing my mind!
I'm not even scared now. All I want is answers. Not

finding any is just making me frustrated and angrier at a
reflection of what I thought was me.
"I'm Altamas, a warrior who has been tasked to possess

you." Said the voice looking at me.
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Bay’
ah of Altamas
Possess me? Tasked? I'm definitely not buying my

cigarettes from 'baba, khoka wala' again. "Yes, those things
are not good for your health." Altamas gives his health tips.
Now, I'm just standing in awkward silence, waiting for
further clarification from a reflection. "Well, you see, the
warehouse, which we transited to, was a prison which I
used to possess as well," Altamas was now hesitating,
which would have triggered me going mental, but he
continued with his explanation. "I broke the Jinn code of
possessing this woke yoga instructor, which she obviously
consented to, and then I took her away to show her the
neighbourhood, but somebody reported me to the Mujrik
council, thus landing in that boring room."
This makes no sense. All I could think of was how did I

end up in this place and is this really a jinn?
"Those symbols on your ring finger are a binding contract

called Bay,ah, between you and I, which allows you to
pledge my allegiance to you and yours to me.." Altamas
exclaims proudly.
"What contract? I never signed any contract. I never

pledged my allegiance to you." Spewed out of my mouth in
objection.
"You didn't sign, but you did imprint your thumb on it,
like five times. You only needed to do it three times,
though." Altamas smirked.
"You tricked me! I don't want to be in this contract. Take
me back to my room!" I object again. Altamas takes a deep
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Those Damned Lands
sigh and explains, "You can now only get out of this
contract when we are done with the task, or we both can
spend our time locked up in that boring room while you are
proclaimed missing by your family. Trust me, we both are
happier if we just get on with the task." My fear is gone.
All I can think of is how a jinn has duped me into a contract
allowing him to possess me. Nuts!
"You're supposed to just scare me, so I can get back to the

Masjid. Do not possess me and tell me jokes. What is the
task?" I yell.
"We have to capture Nijal, the other jinn you saw last
night. Relax, let's just take it a step at a time. It's a miracle
that you haven't puked yet. Let's just go back home and
figure it out." Altamas tries to comfort me.
Finally, I can go home!
A feeling of relief starts to take over. "What's this room

we're in?" I asked him, curious. This room resembles the
prison room he was talking about.
"It's where I come to gather my thoughts and admire the

sky. Now push through the glass, and you don't need to
press your thumb on the finger. We shall be binded to one
another. I'll take care of the rest." Altamas says with a
serious tone. I do as I'm told in anticipation of my return
home. As I push the glass, I feel cold and slippery.
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ah of Altamas
Chapter 5
I open my eyes and blink a few times. This looks familiar,

but I've never been here before. Has he taken me to some
other prison? There's only dirt, plants and walls. I start
moving around to see what this place is. It has two
doorways but no doors. I walk inside a small room which is
right in front of me. It's my bathroom, but instead of tiles,
there's dirt and plants coming out of it. I look at myself in
the mirror, and I see Altamas smiling.
"Welcome to my world. This is how we see our
surroundings. Nature has its own way."
Altamas has dark eyes which feel like they're piercing

into my soul. "This used to be my dwelling, but then
humans started constructing their societies, and you ended
up occupying this area. I had to move a little further. I did
try to knock a few objects and scare you, humans, off, but
I've never seen such a stubborn family." Altamas sounded
like he let us take this win.
"Why can't I recognize my room? What happened?" I

asked him with disappointment. "Since I've possessed you,
you can see through my eyes, and I can see through yours.
This is the Jinn dimension. You'll get the hang of it. Let's
just go to the playground behind the house, and I'll show
you around." He quickly adds, "You'll love it."
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Those Damned Lands
It's the hour of dawn, and now the architecture and layout
of the house are visible in my head. I can recognize the
stairs, the kitchen, the hall and the entrance to my house,
which has no door.
"Why are there no doors?" I curiously ask Altamas.
"Since I've possessed you, we can see through the doors

and pass through. They exist, only you just can't see them.
The walls are made from clay; those we can't see through.
When the doors are of metal, we can't see or pass through."
Altamas is getting all excited with my curiosity.
"So, how come we can go through glass and walls?" I ask

him.
"A few of us have different capabilities. Some can change

shape and become animals, some can instantly be in a
different location, and some can fly. I am of the warrior
tribe, and I can transport myself and anyone I possess
through walls or glass to anywhere in this world." He said
excitedly.
Everything is so green and yet looks haunted. All these

walls are without doors but have doorways. We start
walking towards the playground, and I wonder why we
don't just transport ourselves there.
"There's only so much travelling I can do with the two of

us. It drains energy every time we transit to a new place."
He says after reading my mind. "We should get breakfast
soon!"
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ah of Altamas
Chapter 6
Walking through the neighbourhood, I'm taken aback by

the wilderness surrounding all this concrete. Reminds me
of the time I trekked to Fairy meadows in the north. Chill
winds blowing from Nanga Parbat, the killer mountain.
Lush green grass on the rocks, life seems impossible to
live.
Jinn world exists right in the middle of ours. The more

time Altamas possesses me, the more majestic his world
feels. Around the corner, just a few more feet from the
playground, I see a huge tree that looks like it has lived for
centuries. It's like Nanga Parbat, but with green leaves.
Fairy lights are hanging from the branches that look like
fireflies buzzing in the dawn. I see a few shadows
underneath it, moving.
"These are my people. They are waking up from their

sleep to start their day." Altamas explains. As we get
closer, I see women, children, men and dogs all under the
tree doing what looks like chores. Women are ploughing
the ground and carrying children on their backs. Men
collect leaves fallen on the ground to tidy up the place. I
saw a dog morph into a jinn. What a sight! It's a community
right behind my house, and I never could have known if
there was life besides us if I wasn't possessed by Altamas.
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Those Damned Lands
There were small igloos made of clay surrounding the

tree. It was their home. The women looked sleek and tall.
As I was glancing through the crowd, a girl wearing a black
sheet with symbols similar to the ones on my finger caught
my attention. "Like the yoga instructor, I told you about,"
Altamas commented on the thoughts snapping me out of it.
I looked away instantly to save myself from the
embarrassment. I could sense Altamas giggling inside at
my awkward situation.
"Parwana, look who I possessed. It's Hassan from my old

home. Nijal was about to possess him, and I saved him
from the shetan." I spoke out loud. Just when I wanted to
not get any attention, I realized Altamas and I were the
same person. In my moment of weakness, he used me to
introduce us to Jinnat under the tree.
"Mujrik won't be happy with you, Altamas, first the yoga

instructor and now this bag of potatoes," Parwana said with
little care for my feelings. "Hassan and I are in contract. It's
halal. Besides, if I didn't do it, Nijal would well be on his
way with him to who knows where." I raise my finger to
show her the new tattoo I got last night.
"Good. Otherwise, I would have told the Mujrik, like I

did with the yoga girl, and saved this poor soul as well."
Parwana seemed to care. "How could you? It was you! All
this time, I thought that dog, Basheer, was being loyal to
the Mujrik. It was you all along! I was going to marry her."
Came out of my mouth, and Altamas was angry. All the
emotions of betrayal, feelings of disappointment started to
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ah of Altamas
settle down. We sat around a mud pit where breakfast was

being served. It was mangoes and leaves.
It was an experience having mangoes and leaves for
breakfast. Parwana, who now was more welcoming, started
to explain their traditions. Mangoes are the source of
energy which helps Jinnat accomplish their day-to-day
chores. It also helps fuel their many capabilities. Parwana
had the ability to look inside the soul. She could tell what
intentions one holds. The leaves are like water. It sustains
life for them. Every now and then, most jinns would shape-
shift into snakes and dogs to help themselves with meat and
bones. The leaves of the tree, when boiled, would provide
them with nutrients to supplement the remaining diet. It
was herbal tea. My curiosity was building up. I wanted to
know who this Nijal was and why he was trying to possess
me. Parwana seemed to know all the answers. She sensed
my discomfort and curiosity about this whole situation. She
started to explain.
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Chapter 7
Nijal was once part of the jinn community. He would often

disappear to distant places for days and would come back
with stories he heard from humans he met during his
travels. Most of these humans were Sufis, who, because of
their elevated sense of the world, could interact with jinns.
Whenever there was a need for exorcism, people would
seek out Sufis or mullanas, men of the faith, who could
exorcise Jinnat and help their loved ones through this
imperceptible ordeal. Nijal was a curious jinn and would
spend hours with Sufis learning about their mystic world.
He started questioning why humans are the 'Ashraf Ul
makhluqat' when he is much stronger and could exist in
various dimensions which humans can't even perceive. It
was once when he met the great Sayeen Sufi Zahoor, who
explained to Nijal why humans are Ashraf Ul Maklookat.
It's the ability to choose. It's their free will to change the
course of their destiny which separates them from the rest
of the creations.
Nijal was confused. He, too, had the will to change his
destiny. Sayeen Zahoor explained to him that what he
perceives as free will is just an illusion, an illusion of
choice. It was then, Nijal realized that the ability of humans
lies in their belief and their faith. They are the creators
themselves. Using imagination and science, they can
transmit an event happening in one place of the world to
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Bay’
ah of Altamas
another with the resources of the earth. They made

television and computers. Nijal wanted that power. He
knew if he possessed humans, he could harness the ability
to create and become the strongest creature in all
dimensions. He would have faith. The belief is that if he
wills for something to happen, it happens.
Nijal was no different from any other power-hungry

creature. He wanted to possess humans and gain the ability
to create and harness the resources in nature. Jinnat can't
invent complex tools unless they possess a human. But
most humans can't bear being possessed. They lose their
power of will and sanity. Once they are under the control of
a jinn, they act out what the jinn wants. Only a few humans
can handle a jinn's influence. The mind has to accept so the
body can coexist with the jinn. This lets them see through
each other's eyes and use each other's abilities. To stop
jinns from possessing humans, The Mujrik council installed
laws. Only a selected few humans can be possessed through
a binding contract. Breaking the Mujrik's laws lands the
Jinnat in prison. To capture such offenders, The Mujrik
Council seeks help from Sufis and Mullanas, who help
Jinnat create tools and prisons to contain such offenders.
Altamas's Sabre was named Babar. It was forged by the
great mystic Qalandar Bibi Rabia. Upon Mujrik council's
request, and also to contain Nijal from possessing humans,
Qalandar Bibi.
Rabia created the Sabre for Altamas by harnessing the

energies of the sky and encapsulating the essence of her
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Those Damned Lands
will inside it. It is the only tool which can stop Nijal from
terrorizing the human community.
Parwana told us the story, which raised a question. Why
me? She sighed in disappointment and expected that her
story would have cleared any doubts.
"Your will is strong. You can become a vessel for the

jinns and harness their abilities, and they can harness
yours." Parwana kept explaining.
It's a constant battle to maintain balance. If one

overpowers the other, they get total control of their mind
and are enslaved to their will. That's what the contracts are
for. If such an instance arises, where one loses total control
of their consciousness, the jinn is expelled from the body
and the ink vanishes. If there is no contract, a jinn could
take over the body forever. Rarely have humans gotten full
control of jinns.
Once expelled, it's hard for the jinn to repossess. Now the
human mind knows how not to get tricked by them.
Nijal does not get into contracts of any dimensions. He

takes what he desires. Altamas has been tasked to bring
Nijal to the Mujrik, and in order to do that, he needs my
will to stop this menace.
The question is, how do we find him? "That's the easy

part. Listen to the wind, and you'll hear the haunting
screams of minds that are possessed by Nijal." Altamas
answers. Mulana will try to exorcize him from the body.
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ah of Altamas
It wasn't long before I became restless. My head started to

ache, and Altamas was now on alert. He sensed a
disturbance in the wind.
"Hassan, whatever you do, don't fall for Nijal's lies. He

will be powerful if he has found a vessel for himself. If not,
we might be lucky to get him in prison without any
problems." Altamas warns me.
I'm nervous! The dream recurred when Nijal and I locked

eyes on the night of my possession. It was strong and
inviting. It felt like a dream where I knew I was asleep and
anything was possible.
"Do you feel that? It's the time! Push through the tree and
follow this feeling. Our will together will carry us to the
place from where this wind blows." Altamas prepares us.
I gather the courage and look at the finger, contemplating

if I could wash off the ink and go back to my life's
problems. I push through the tree. The cold and wet feeling
electrifies my body.
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Chapter 8
It's dark. The dark cloud over this house that we transition
to reminds me of last night. It was the same screaming
night I woke up to. There's a wall behind me and in front of
us is a house that seems to be haunted. There are no doors,
and a few branches and weeds are covering the house. I
reach for Babar, the Sabre, and pull it out of the sheath. The
energy gripping Babar is extraordinary.
We walk towards the void at the back of the house. I

somehow know where it's coming from. Altamas knows
this feeling well. We make our way through the doorway,
and a noise, chanting of some sort, can be heard from the
corner of the house. As we get closer, passing through the
hall, I can hear a man shouting in a language all too
familiar. The energy is now too strong. It's repelling us
away.
As we enter the room, a young woman is sitting on the

ground and has a smile on her face. Facing her is a
Maulana chanting, which sounds like a forced transcript to
expel any bad energy inside this woman.
“That will be all Maulana sahib.” I interrupt the sermon.

Maulana sahib turns around, and one can see signs of relief
taking over him.
"What took you so long? Mujrik told me they sent for you
to take care of Nijal. This is his thirteenth possession. I
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ah of Altamas
think they have synced." Maulana was complaining about

the tiresome trips he had to make because of the
exorcisms.
"Apologies, Maulana sahib! This would have been his

fourteenth if I didn't intervene for this human. I had to
show Hassan around and get him used to our dimension.
You should leave and take care of her family. I'll take care
of this." Altamas spoke through me.
Maulana made his way out, and now it was just us four.
"Nijal, why are you creating trouble for this family?

Haven't you done enough tormenting?" I sound serious.
"I haven't even begun to forge my legacy. This vessel is

strong enough to help me make it. You would be wise to
leave." Nijal's vessel spoke in a deep voice.
"Mujrik council won't appreciate you possessing this poor

woman and that even without a contract." Altamas pleads
to make him see the error in his ways.
"I don't need any council to tell me what I have to do. My

actions are my own. My will is free. Now, I can choose and
create whatever I desire." Nijal was not going to let this go.
He wanted to elevate himself to other dimensions, and now
his will was strong.
I dashed towards Nijal with Babar pointing towards him.

The woman swept in the air and started to float. It was
close. I was worried I might hurt the woman, but Altamas
whispered to me that this Sabre only affects the energy
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inside the vessel. It was forged with the energy of the

Qalandar, and I should not hesitate to take her down.
While I was stressing about the woman, she clapped her
hands, forcing a gust of strong wind and throwing me off
balance. She swept in to take advantage of the situation and
grabbed me by the shoulders, pushing me into the wall.
Altamas quickly transported us outside the house before we
could hit the walls. She was strong, and this wasn't easy.
"You have to believe that we can contain Nijal. Do not

believe, even for a second, that you can't fight him. Your
will is the strongest of them all." Altamas spoke some
words for motivation. Nijal came out soaring through the
doorway and found us ready to fight him. No words were
wasted, and the duel continued from where it left. This time
Nijal plunged towards us and knocked us to the ground.
"I thought it didn't hurt the vessel! My chest is burning." I

screamed in agony.
"It's his intent. He wants to hurt us both. You're going to

feel everything I feel, and we both can get hurt." Altamas
spoke painfully.
We got on our feet with Babar in our grip. "Focus on

Nijal's mind. If you can weaken his will, we will be able to
extract him out of the woman." Altamas was now
formulating a plan. I could see how it was going to play
out. Our minds were in sync. I focused all my energy on
shattering Nijal's will. It was pushing back.
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ah of Altamas
"You can become the most powerful being if you accept

me as your possessor. We will have command over
domains unknown to you and the human race." Nijal's
words whispered in my ear. He was in my head.
"Don't listen to his lies. He's distracting you. He will use

you until he fulfils his desires. He would enslave you."
Altamas screamed in my other ear.
After a few manoeuvres in midair and both fell to the

ground. I lost grip on Babar, and it fell a few feet away.
Four of us lunged towards it, but I reached it first. I grabbed
the Sabre and pushed it through the head of Nijal. It passed
through, and the woman fell unconscious to the ground.
Nijal was lying beside her, weak. His will was shattered by
the energy of the great Qalandar. I reached for his hands
and clamped them together. A ring of symbols formed
around Nijal's wrists.
He was captured.
"You do know this will not contain me." Nijal gleamed

into the eyes of Altamas.
"That's the Mujrik council's decision. For now, you're

going to prison with your wings clipped off." Altamas said
satisfyingly.
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Chapter 9
"We caught him!" I shouted excitedly. "I thought I was

going to die." My hands were shivering.
Nijal looked weak, but it was obvious that his spirit didn't
break. He had tasted the power of free will and creation. On
the other hand, I had experienced the power of a jinn in me.
My ability to choose and my free will was Nijal's desire.
We were not that different, just from different dimensions.
Maulana came out and praised Altamas for saving the

affected woman. "It was a team effort," Altamas said
proudly. "We should get going. You can take the woman
inside and make her herbal tea. Get her a mango fruit as
well to revive her energy." Altamas gripped Nijal by the
shoulder, and we walked into the wall.
I knew what I had to do. "Take us outside your house. I
won't be able to transfer the three of us to the prison."
It got cold, and we were standing outside my house.
"The contract is over. You have done your part. This

might be the last time we see each other." Altamas seemed
to be in a hurry. Maybe he didn't want to get emotional.
I surely was. "I won't mind getting into a contract with

you again." I didn't want him to part.
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Bay’
ah of Altamas
"That's up to the Council, maybe they have another task,

and we could meet again. But remember, your will is
stronger than that of the Council. You can do whatever
your will desires." Altamas exited my body, and I could see
both of them diminish into the scenery. I could see doors
and the concrete again.
I was back in my world.
I wish that I could have gone with him and seen the
whole Mujrik council. What kind of Jinns would preside? I
walked into the door of my home only to knock my head
against it, forgetting I couldn't pass through unless I was
possessed. I ring the bell, and my brother shows up.
"Where were you? Ama was worried all morning." Uqbah

started interrogating as usual.
"Went for a walk and met a few jinns." I threw in a

remark.
"You wait, ama will take out your jinn, rascal." Uqbah
lets me inside.
No one would believe me if I told them I really did meet

jinns. They would probably start reciting Ayat-ul-Kursi,
and I would have to sit through the whole drama.
Days passed, and nights lasted longer. I would look at the

window and hope that a jinn would fly through the curtains.
A samurai would follow, and I could go on an adventure.
Sometimes, I would walk to the playground and roam
around to see where the tree was, but only to find grass.
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Could they see me? Would they be able to sense my

presence? All the questions I should have asked, but
everything happened so fast.
Slowly, more days passed, and my experience started to

fade away. I got busy with my world. Sometimes I wonder
if Parwana is collecting mangoes from somewhere. A few
days later, I forgot that I had ever battled a mighty Djinn.
"Wake up! Parwana's in trouble." A sound jerked me up

from my slumber. I saw a face that I had missed throughout
my days.
"Are you ready for another binding contract?" Altamas

held his hand out. I smiled! Without any hesitation, I
grabbed it. We jumped to the window, and my thumb
rubbed my finger three times. I pushed my hand on the
glass. The cold and wet feeling returned.
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Fairies of the Lake
by
Rabia Wahid
Those Damned Lands
Experience the Beauty of Saif-ul-Malook in person!

23rd to 27th August
Bookings Open Now
The scenic over-edited picture decorated Maeena's

newsfeed. She wasn't surprised that the discussions with
her friends about trips had clearly been picked up by the
sponsored ads. The caption contained a detailed itinerary,
but the price was nowhere in sight. However, Eliza had
done her due diligence before sending the post to her,
mentioning the different packages they were offering based
on room-sharing preferences. It seemed like a good deal,
her budget for trips easily surpassing the cost, but it was the
meticulous scheduling that bothered her.
She wanted to explore the area without any restraints. She
wanted an adventure and the chances of getting one with a
travel agency, the way she wanted, were almost zero – a
taste of freedom from everyday routine, unbound by the
schedules of others.
That was the topic of discussion when Eliza called an
hour later. They agreed to hire a car and a local driver, a
contact of Eliza's brother. With the passing weeks, the trip's
major details were mapped out as well as shared with the
concerned parents. They were going as a group of four
girls. Maeena felt excited; she hadn't visited the north since
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she had been a child, and even though she would have
preferred a longer trip with more sightseeing, this was a
good start.
Thunder crackled, dragging Maeena's attention from the

call to the downpour outside. Monsoon had hit severely this
time around, and even though she loved rain, the chaos that
ensued after these thunderstorms caused nothing but
damage. Climate change had always disturbed her, not
because it felt like nature was fighting back but because
nobody around her seemed to care.
*****
The prickly sensation of the grass blades was accompanied

by the moisture soaking into the back of her clothes.
Maeena spread her palm against the ground as her eyes
fluttered open. The sky was falling towards her, or at least
that is how she felt. It was a dark blue canvas, splattered
with white paint –so many stars decorating the world
above.
Maeena pulled herself into a sitting position, taking in the

mountains that surrounded her. With the snow tops
glistening slightly, they looked haunting in the moonlight.
Her breath hitched when her eyes fell onto the vast lake. It
was shimmering under the silver rays and in the middle of
it stood two figures.
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A sense of dread filled her as she gripped the grass

beneath her hands, but within a second, it all vanished. Her
knees were cold, and the wind bit at her face. The moisture
at her back faded in comparison to the Icy water that
lapped around her feet now. She was a few paces from the
two figures; a man and a woman. They were both smiling
at her, but with every second, the turn of lips grew more
foreboding. The moonlight shone upon their features,
enlightening them in a way that sent a chill down Maeena's
spine. She shivered, unable to take her eyes away from the
woman who stood a few steps ahead of the man. Cracks
formed upon her skin, from the corner of her upturned lips
to the edge of her crinkled eye, which swirled with fear.
The man behind her raised his hand as if to reach out for
her and grab her by the shoulder. His eyes snapped from
her to Maeena. At that moment, the temperature dropped
even further, and ice flooded her veins. They both opened
their mouths, the jaws elongating further than they should
have.
Maeena woke up with a start, the cool wind from the fan
already drying up her sweat. She was clutching the printed
bedsheet in her hand. Her tied-up hair sitting on the top of
her head with strands brushing against her skin. This was
the third time she had had this dream; it started distinctly
each time, with her sometimes sitting in a boat or atop a
horse, with the sun shining upon them or a sunset lighting
up the sky. However, it always ended the same horrifying
way, leaving her with a pounding heart.
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She bowed her head down, closing her eyes as she recited
Ayat-ul-Kursi. The faces floated behind her closed eyelids,
the features contorting even more so. She didn't open her
eyes until she had repeated the Ayat three times –three
times to protect the whole neighbourhood. That's what she
had grown up learning; once for your own protection,
twice for your entire house, and thrice for your entire
neighbourhood. She imagined a light blue protective dome
forming around her as she recited the words, letting that
image bring her comfort.
Once her heartbeat had returned to its normal pace,

Maeena gently removed her blanket to place her feet on the
cold marble floor. The thought of hands coming from
beneath the bed and grabbing her ankles crossed her mind,
but sleep was already calling her back. She grabbed the
glass placed on her side table, the chilly water sliding
down her throat. It spread across her chest as she gulped it
down greedily before making her way back to a dreamless
sleep.
*****
September finally rolled around; Maeena woke up at the

first ring of her alarm. The sun hadn't risen yet. She felt like
a school kid waking up on time for once because there was
an event at school. She had set her bags the night before,
checking off everything from her list, yet she still found
herself rushing when the time came to leave. Her hands
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were full, her phone charger hanging down to her waist

with her oversized purse brimming over. She said her
farewells to her parents, even though she knew that they'd
be asking for updates the minute she was out the door. Her
brown hair was tied into a side braid, but the short side
flick still fell into her hazel eyes enough times to make her
pin it back. She looked like a mess, but she'd have the
opportunity to fix herself in the car.
The noise in the car could've easily been labelled as a

"fish market" when the journey started. There were squeals
accompanying stories and random singalongs throughout
the way. 'Stop Shop' was the first destination where the four
of them spread out to grab the necessary road snacks.
Maeena stepped out while the cashier counted their items,
and she looked at the hills they were moving towards. The
wind whipped the stray hair strands into her face, and, as
she went to sweep them behind her ear, she froze. From the
corner of her eye, she saw a figure that moved at an
inhuman speed because, in a second, there was a face
staring at her from the side. She couldn't pinpoint any
features, yet she felt its eyes trained on her, drinking her in.
Fear had spread through her body, the voices in the
background fading as cold breath fanned her cheek. Her
body started trembling, tears building up in her eyes.
"Ma…Madad. " The rough whisper felt like nails on a

board. Maeena closed her eyes, breathing heavily as she
tried to get a hold of her fear. She flinched as an unworldly
screech filled her mind.
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Fairies of the Lake
"Maeena!" A shove from the right brought the world back

into focus. Eliza stood beside her, her friend's dark brown
eyes swirling with annoyance as she shook the three bags
full of junk food. Her wavy black hair, was cut short till her
chin was swaying slightly with the breeze. "Did you fall
asleep standing up? What's wrong with you?"
Maeena didn't move, afraid that her legs had given up, but
when Eliza glared back at her, she finally took the first
step. Her entire body was shaking but at least she didn't fall
to the ground. Once she was seated back in the car, she
couldn't stop thinking of the screech. Her phone flashed
multiple messages from Saniya. She looked up at her quiet
friend sitting near the other window. Saniya's chestnut
brown eyes behind a round frame were studying her, a
small worried furrow between her eyebrows.
Is everything alright with you?
The text read followed by multiple messages.' Before she
could reply, more texts popped up.
You seem pale; are you feeling nauseous?
Maeena looked up at her friend, giving her a slight smile

and thumbs up. However, that only deepened Saniya's
worry.
Mae, tell me the truth. What's wrong?
She knew that Saniya wasn't going to let this go.
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I am okay, babe. Something a little freaky happened. I'll

tell all of you tonight. That settled her worry, resulting in a
thumbs up from her followed by some heart emojis.
Maeena did mean it when she said that she'd tell them
that night, but by the time they reached the hotel in Naran,
they were all exhausted. They had chosen a single room to
share in hopes of having a late-night party. The hopes of
that party died when the hotel guide informed them that
they should visit Lake Saif-ul-Malook tomorrow. Maeena
had been planning to leave that till the end of the trip.
However, despite choosing a weekend with blue skies, the
moody weather had decided otherwise. The predicted rain
meant that the only safe option was to visit the lake before
the roads got too dangerous. On top of that, they had to
visit it early in the morning as it took hours to get to the
lake even in a jeep.
The party of four fell into their beds, thinking they'd stay
up late but falling asleep before the clock struck twelve.
*****
Maeena stood in a meadow, the kind you saw on your

Windows Desktop when you were young. The wind blew
through her loose hair, a pleasant cool breeze to fight off
the hot sun beating down on her. She stood barefoot in
traditional navy blue shalwar kameez and a printed dupatta
wrapped across her throat. She could feel metal against her
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Fairies of the Lake
forehead, raising her hand up to realize a mathapati

decorating it.
Surrounded by lush green mountains, Maeena felt
confused. The wind grew stronger around her, and she
turned to find a breathtaking couple standing in front of
her. They were both smiling at her warmly, the man
beckoning her closer with his finger. Maeena set off in their
direction, reaching for the stunning woman who had
opened her hand palm up for her.
Before her fingers could come in contact with the
woman's, the world turned upside down. The 24-year
brunette saw as the world tilted as if she was falling onto
her side, only to return to a scene that made her inhale
sharply.
Gone were the meadows and the lush mountains. Instead

stood withered plants and barren planes. Two withered
corpses now occupied the place where the ravishing couple
had stood. Their skins had turned grey with time, sunken
into their faces and barely clinging onto their bones.
Suddenly, both of them opened their eyes, or at least what
would have been their eyes. Maeena stared into the empty
holes that felt fixed upon her, watching as cracks formed in
the remaining flesh, watching as the two people in front of
her crumbled to dust, watching as the wind blew away their
remains.
Maeena's eyes fluttered open to the sound of leaves

rustling outside. Sweat prickled at the back of her neck
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even though she felt anything but cold. Even though this
dream had not been worse than the ones she had had
before, Maeena felt disturbed. She recited the Ayat-ul-
Kursi while staring at the ceiling, listening to the rise and
fall of breaths in the room.
She knew she couldn't sleep back again so quickly, so the

brunette bundled her hair into a messy bun and shuffled out
onto the terrace. The world was quiet. Crickets chirped in
the trees as the trees tried to shake off their last few leaves.
She checked her mobile for the time; 4:17 am. A calm had
settled over the world, the sky turning light with each
passing second as the sun rose once again. She looked back
down to her phone, only to find one word flashing there.
Madad.
*****
The jeep ride started calmly; all four girls sleepy as they
bundled into the car. The bumpy road did not make that last
for long though, as they quickly realized they would not be
able to sneak in a nap. The driver kept them updated about
the bumps, talking about the rainy weather expected the
next day. When they got closer to the lake, the driver asked
them if any of them knew the story of the lake. Why it was
called Lake Saif ul-Malook, and his question was met only
by Saniya.
"It has something to do with fairies; that's all I know."
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Fairies of the Lake
"Fairies?" The driver questioned, manoeuvring the car

over rocks that did not qualify for a road in any manner.
"Pariyaan." Her friend clarified.
"Yes! Pariyaan or rather the queen of them." The driver

continued excitedly, clearly looking forward to recounting
the myth of the beloved lake. "There was a prince. Prince
Saif, who dreamed of the Pariyaan bathing in the lake. He
dreamt of their queen; some call her Malka, and
some Badi-ul-Jamal."
The four girls exchanged glances, smiling in anticipation

and staying quiet. A sign that was enough for the local man
to continue with his story. The prince had set out to find
Malka, and after years of searching, he finally stumbled
upon the lake they knew today. On the night of the full
moon, He saw the fairies bathing. He was smitten by the
fairy queen and wanted to stay with her. The local
mentioned how there were few other versions. Some say
there was a Deo, a giant involved. All the versions ended
the same way though, with the prince and queen together.
"Some people camp on the full moon nights here in hopes

of seeing them," The driver finished, giving us a full-
toothed smile. "Tonight's also a full moon. You girls should
try your luck."
Saniya asked to hear the Deo version, but by then, the

jeep took one final turn to reveal a set of colourful tents and
endless other jeeps. Beyond it, lay the highly sought-after
lake. It was almost picturesque, the mountains at the side a
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Those Damned Lands
combination of green grass and white snow. The farthest

mountain was covered in snow, their angling making the
lake a scene from imagination. The bright blue lake
mirrored the skies, as ripples formed throughout it with
each movement of the boats. Horses were walking on the
sides, guided by locals as tourists sat upon them.
Maeena took in the beauty before her, wondering how

alluring it must have been the first time it was discovered.
Without the tents, boats, and cars, without the mark of
humanity's presence. They slowly got off the jeep,
stretching their legs. Maeena turned to ask the driver about
their time of departure, taking a picture of the number plate
as well as confirming where he would most likely be found
if they had to contact him. The girl turned her back to join
her friends, who were waiting for her outside the parking
area when a whisper slithered its way to her ear.
"Maeena."
It sounded strangled yet familiar. A shiver crawled its

way up her spine and she turned back to see the driver still
standing near the car. Only this time, there was no warmth
in his face nor a smile. His eyes had rolled back to reveal
all white as his eyelids fluttered. Maeena glanced at the
other drivers around, but it was like none of them noticed.
"Madad."
The same word that she had heard since the trip began.
She knew it meant help, but she did not understand what it
meant for her. Was she seeking help? Was someone
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Fairies of the Lake
seeking help from her? What kind of help were they talking
about, and why her?
"Ma'am?" the familiar voice snapped her out of her
reverie as she glanced up to see the driver staring at her
with concern etched in his eyes. "Are you okay, Madam?"
"Yes, yes." was all she could croak out before turning to
aim for her friends.
*****
The photoshoot of each girl in different poses and angles

took more than three hours. On the positive end, though,
they were all satisfied that they now had new posts for all
their social media platforms. They had ended up taking
group photos with timers, trying their best to include the
scenery behind them. The session left them hungry for
food, and that's when they started exploring the makeshift
market that had been set up beside the lake.
Most of them were food, from on-spot pakoray being

made to packets of chips. The market seemed to have
everything, but for higher prices. Eliza also stumbled upon
a little boy selling flower crowns that quickly decorated the
heads of all four girls. Faiza, the fourth member of their
group, captured each detail of the market on her phone. Her
flower crown lay on top of her baby pink headscarf, the
white flowers going very well with her pastel outfit.
Maeena told her to stand for once, knowing that Faiza was
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most likely to have the least number of pictures amongst

the four of them. After all, she was mostly found on the
other side of the camera.
Maeena took her pictures from different angles, asking

her to pose when she found one that encapsulated the
imagery at the back as well. She pressed the shutter button
a few times, noticing something moving in the background.
She tapped on the picture in the corner, and it opened up to
Faiza's bright smile. However, that wasn't what made
Maeena's blood go cold. In the lake behind her stood two
figures, figures that she had seen before. She swiped the
pictures, her breath hitching in her throat as she saw the
figures get closer to the shore in each shot.
She blinked, and they were gone, leaving her with
wobbling legs.
*****
"What do you mean we can't go back?" Saniya screamed as

the driver shrugged.
"Madam, two jeeps got into an accident on the way. The

road is blocked until the morning when they can remove
them."
"What do you expect us to do till then? We don't have

anything to spend the night!" This addition was by Eliza,
who had her hands in fists.
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"Don't worry. It's the full moon, so we were expecting

campers for tonight. I will guide you to a guy who will give
you tents for the night at a very reasonable rate." The
calmness with which the driver spoke seemed to further
drive the frustration of all four girls. Faiza had initially
gotten worried at the aspect of having to stay there with no
trusted individual, but a travel agency group with a lot of
other females turned out to be visiting as well. They were
mostly their age and offered to stay with them for the night.
The camps were set up, and the equipment was rented for
outrageously unreasonable prices.
Considering the number of tourists that had ended up

stuck with them, each camp was being used beyond its
capacity. The girls thankfully got one where all four of
them would be sleeping together.
When the sky exploded with colours as a farewell to the

sun, the travel group arranged a bonfire. Its main aim was
to keep everyone's spirits up for the night. However, eyes
quickly strayed from the dancing flame to the scene beyond
them. The full moon, as well as its accompanying stars, had
created something out of a fairytale. The still water of the
lake shined slightly with reflections while the mountains
surrounding it seemed hauntingly beautiful. The one
covered in snow took their breaths away, its contrast of
shadows against the glowing white blanket giving it an
ethereal touch.
Maeena shivered as the chilly wind kissed her cheeks, its
whistling sound bringing an unexpected sense of comfort.
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Clearly, she was not the only one who had felt its call to
sleep because, one by one, people retired to go to sleep.
Their chattering, confined to their tents, slowly quietened
before disappearing entirely. It left behind just the wind,
and Maeena fell asleep to its unheard lullaby.
She was up, groggy but up, without knowing why. The
confusion didn't last for long, though; their tent flap was
billowing with the wind, depositing icy winds inside.
Someone must not have zipped it completely. An irritated
Maeena squirmed out of her sleeping bag, trying not to
disturb her friends. How they remained asleep in this cold
was beyond her understanding. She grabbed the edge of the
flap, pulling it towards her. Only she couldn't. Frosty
fingers had wrapped around her wrist. Her initial thought
was to grab her taser, but when she took in the fingers, she
realized that may not be of help. The fingers seemed
corroded, almost metallic, as they scraped against her skin.
The nails had turned grey, with knuckles that protruded
with bits of bone. Maeena could feel a scream building up
in her chest when a gentle voice floated into her ears.
"Salam, saviour." A thick feminine northern accent

weighed down the uttered words of greeting. "We have
waited for you. Come meet us."
The fingers around her wrist loosened, guiding the flap to
open more. Maeena sat frozen in her spot, staring at the
revealed scenery of the lake, and in the middle of that lake
stood two figures.
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All her dreams came crashing back to her, the contorted

faces inciting greater fear. However, she could not tear her
eyes off the figures. She saw them turn towards each other,
joining their hands. The wind whistled louder, thrumming
with a sense of excitement. It was creating a melody, the
girl realized, and a melody for them to dance to. They
swayed with their feet playing right over the shining water,
sending ripples throughout.
Maeena let out a breath she didn't know she had been
holding. The fear swirled in her body but watching the
dance, a new emotion blossomed; desire. Desire to step
onto the surface of the water as Maeena danced alongside
them.
Her feet were moving before her mind had caught up,
aiming for the shore. The figures grew closer, the wind
louder, the symphony guiding their moves, or – maybe – it
was their moves guiding the symphony.
The grass tickled her bare feet, yet she did not shift her
gaze from the dance. She felt hypnotized, the spell breaking
the minute her feet came in contact with the rippling waves.
It's cold lick feeling more like a bucket of freezing water.
The wind died, and the couple froze mid-step. From this
distance, she could see the woman was adorned in a long
traditional red frock while her forehead was covered with
a mathapati that glittered in the moonlight. Her hands were
placed on the shoulders of a man dressed in similar
traditional attire; white shalwar kameez and a red
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embroidered waistcoat. At his side hung a sword, its silver

glare pronounced.
The desire – like a spell – had died down, leaving behind
a trembling Maeena standing on the shore. She wrapped her
arms around her, unsure if her body was shaking due to the
cold or the fear. She turned back towards her camp, closing
her eyes and muttering to herself.
"Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Please wake up."
The breeze was picking up again, carrying an eerie note.
"SABR!" A screech came from the lake as a gust of air hit

Maeena. She stumbled back into the water, shrieking into
the silent night.
Maeena waited for the cold to hit her. She opened her
eyes, praying she was back in her sleeping bag when she
did or even her own room. In front of her lay a reflective
surface, the lake, and beyond it, she could see the tiny
shadows of what had to be tents. Her breath hitched in her
chest, feeling the wind caress the back of her neck.
"Savior." The same gentle voice, only closer, right near

her ear. Maeena closed her eyes, feeling the tremors start
throughout her body. "Turn."
Her legs followed the command, and she came face-to-

face with the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Her
plump lips were painted red, her cheeks blossoming pink
and her eyes. Her grey eyes were fixed upon her, the irises
like whirling tornadoes. They were framed by thick
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eyelashes and underlined with kohl. Behind her flowed her

black curtain of hair, the curls moving like waves in the
starlight.
She extended her hand towards Maeena, her fingers full

of various rings and perfectly manicured nails. She brushed
her hand on Maeena's cheek, warmth emanating from her
face.
"Relax, jaan." Looking into the woman's eyes, Maeena

felt her body loosen up, the fear dissipating with her words.
A smile followed, lighting up the woman's unworldly
beauty even more so. She looked behind her, and Maeena
followed her line of sight. There stood the man she had
danced with. He was built lean and in his late twenties, the
same as the woman. He had a neatly trimmed full beard
surrounding his thin lips. His deep-set brown eyes looked
warily at Maeena, making her squirm internally.
The woman removed her hand from Maeena's cheek,
turning back to her. Her gentle eyes held a hurricane of
emotions.
"We're dying." She mumbled, gesturing around her. "Me

and my kin."
Maeena glanced into the darkness surrounding her. No

figures stared back. Her eyes dropped to the surface of the
water, and there she saw eyes glittering back at her. No
face, no bodies, just eyes like small droplets of stars
scattered throughout.
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"We need your help."
A gust of wind cocooned Maeena. No, not wind. They

were voices. Voices that were saying the same thing over
and over again.
Madad.
The woman raised one hand, and just as quickly as the

voices had come, they disappeared, scattering into the
night.
"Will you help us, our saviour?"
"How?" was the only word Maeena could muster up.
"Stop poisoning us. Ask your kind to stop poisoning us."

The woman raised both her hands to her sides this time, the
calm surface beneath them exploding all around.
Looking at her sides, Maeena felt her heart sink. Plastic

bottles were floating in the air, accompanied by wrappers
of all kinds. A layer of trash covered every inch of the lake
except where they stood.
Humanity's mark.
Maeena looked back at the distressed woman, something

wet sliding down her cheek. Tears made their way down
the woman's porcelain skin, mirroring hers. Maeena wanted
to drop down to her knees and beg for forgiveness, but she
doubted that would help them.
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Fairies of the Lake
"My husband…" The unworldly female said, gesturing to

the distraught man behind her. "He found this place while
seeking me. He appreciated its beauty as he appreciated
me, and he thought his kind would do the same. They still
marvel at the beauty, yet they poison it, poison us."
Tears had blurred her vision by this point. She knew she
had played a part in it, remembering every time she was too
lazy to get the tote bag and substituted it for plastic. She
remembered how the idea of buying a metal straw seemed
too expensive even though she spent hundreds on a drink.
She remembered making excuses for eco-friendly products
one way or another, and it was all those memories that
made her cry. She might not have caused this directly, but
she knew she played a part, and that was enough to
overwhelm her with guilt.
"Don't cry, bache." Hands covered her cheek, fingers

swiping her teardrops gently. "You're my husband's kin, so
I know you meant us no harm. Help us now, won't you?"
Maeena's heart hurt, but as she looked into the grey eyes
of the fairy in front of her, she knew she would do anything
to righten her past wrongs. She nodded, not trusting herself
to speak.
"Promise me?" A whisper, like a secret, shared between

them.
"Promise." The alluring fairy's face broke out into a

spellbinding smile. Her palms warm against Maeena's wet
cheeks.
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"Then I wish you luck on your journey, my small

saviour." Pride danced in those stormy orbs as the fairy
leaned in. Her lips brushed against Maeena's forehead in a
farewell kiss.
*****
The next morning when Maeena woke up, her eyes were
swollen, and her head hurt. There was purpose blossoming
in her heart, a purpose that she wanted to extend to her
friends as well as those beyond them.
She knew it would take time for her to do. She knew she
would stumble. However, she knew why she had to stick
with it. This world was not just hers; it was not just for
humans. Instead, it was a haven for so many.
The minute the road cleared, her friends bid farewell to

the lake, impatient to get back to their hotels. Maeena sat
near the car window, watching the shimmering water one
last time. Just before the jeep turned and it disappeared
from sight, she caught two figures standing on the far end.
The wind blew around her, and even though it did not
whisper to her this time, she knew what it wanted to say. It
was like the caress of the fairy, the kindness of her eyes. It
was an encouragement to do what was right and a reminder
that she was not alone in this fight.
141
From Debal to Manora: a tale of valor
by
Aleena Nadeem
Those Damned Lands
As the sun set on yet another scorching day in Debal, the

cobblestone streets shimmered in their hues. Manaal took
refuge in the silence that the stagnant air held as she made
her way toward the library. As she neared her destination, a
silent prayer escaped her lips as a scream pierced the air.
Fixating her gaze in that direction she realized that it was a
mother that was bawling as a soldier tore her child away
from her.
“Bibi (lady), I have told you that it's the king's order. You
have to let him go. Otherwise, everyone in your household
will get Tussis. We will not be blamed for using force in
case you don't.” The soldier argued with the crying mother.
With hesitance, the mother stepped back as another soldier
took the child and placed him in the horse cart.
Looking at the mother's tear-stricken face felt as if
someone had taken a dagger and pierced it through Manaal.
She remained rooted in her spot, waiting for the soldier to
move as doing otherwise could have her land three months
in the dungeons of Mansura, the capital. Making her way to
the mother, Manaal placed a shaking hand on her shoulder
and said “We will find a way out. Your boy will come back
to you.” whilst a tear rolled down her cheek.
For the past month, Debal had been battling an invisible

enemy, one that had taken away people's sleep as they got
separated from their families. It all started when the port
143
town's well know trader, Akbar, developed a disease that

not even the elders had heard of. The town's hospital
burned their oil lamps day and night to find a cure. Instead,
the ones treating Akbar started showing similar symptoms a
few days after. A cascade of the disease broke out as their
families were the next. A few days in and the entire street
was showing the same symptoms. They called it Tussis as
the patients had contagious cough with blood along with
extremely high fever.
A few healers who were spared from the clutches of this

Tussis rushed to their King Shayan to warn the public about
this deadly disease. As neglectful politicians are, the king
did not bat an eyelash and had the healers thrown out of his
palace until his son became a victim. His howl-like cry
could be heard all the way to Debal as his son was taken to
the hospital. Declaring Tussis an epidemic, the king
mobilized the entire army to forcefully take any person
showing even the slightest symptoms. Thus, Debal became
a prison for the people as no one was allowed to take a step
beyond the town. Yet the wind carried the infection beyond
the town's walls as news from other towns. Two months in
and the entire country was as if under siege by an invisible
enemy.
The library had never felt this far for Manaal as it did
today. The event she encountered had become a daily
occurrence yet every time she came across something
similar, her heart would burn as despite it being two
months, they were nowhere near a cure. Her thundering
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Those Damned Lands
footsteps caused Sarim to leap to his feet, with one hand

instantly clutching the hilt of his sword even though he had
been snoring just a minute ago. As he looked carefully, his
eyes rested on his sister making her way through with a
parchment clutched in her hand.
“I don't know when you will learn this Manaal, but this is
a library, not our living room where you can barge in like
this as if the world is ending.” Releasing a breath, he did
not realize he was holding, Sarim slumped on the cushion
he was previously occupying. He averted his gaze to the
book he had been reading, a gift from his teacher Ustaad
Maroof.
“Oh please.” Manaal rolled her eyes and closed the book
with a thud on Sarim's hand. “Don't even get me started
Sarim. Being here in the library- hiding here- don't look at
me like that- can't make you deny the reality we are facing,
that our world is ending.” Shoving the parchment in her
twin's hands, she started pacing back and forth in the
spacious library.
“Sarim on the way today I encountered a mother arguing

with a soldier as he took her child. He was not even one
Sarim! If only you had heard her scream, the screams of
those at the hospital, you wouldn't be hiding here but rather
doing something!” Manaal cradled her head in her hands as
she sat on the windowsill. Sarim swallowed his words as
Manaal gestured for him to not say a word.
145
“Sarim the number of cases is increasing faster than we

fathom. At this rate, there would be no one left who hasn't
caught Tussis yet.” Manaal exclaimed whilst gesturing to
the list.
Inscrolling the list, Sarim scanned the list which held a

log of names of individuals infected, the date the disease
was encountered along with those who had lost their lives.
Neither young nor old had been spared from the clutches of
Tussis. As days merged into weeks, the number of cases
had drastically increased despite the precautions the state
was taking. At this point, it was on every child's tongue that
a cure was the only way out.
Seeing worry plastered over his sister's face, Sarim

squeezed her shoulder and said, “You might consider it
hiding Manaal but after not even finding a grave for Tariq
and giving his body to the sea, throwing it in the sea with
my hands has left no energy in any fiber of my body.” A
tear rolled down his cheek as his mind clouded with a day
after which the sun never rose on Sarim. Due to the high
volume of death, the cost of funerals had increased
drastically so the people had no choice but turn the sea into
a graveyard.
“Every day is a struggle for me. Some days I still hear his
voice Manaal as he asked me to end his suffering. How
could I paint my hands with my brother's blood yet now I
think I could have reduced his pain?” Sarim's voice broke
as his sister searched his eyes. “But I have been trying
Manaal to get out of this dark well I have fallen in. I have
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Those Damned Lands
been spending my days getting my hands on anything that

might help but it has been of no avail. At this point, I think
we will be meeting Tariq soon.”
Sarim's words opened the unhealed wounds within her;

however, she could not let her emotions take the lead at a
time when few were thinking with their mind. Approaching
her brother, she cradled his face in her hands and said
gently,
“I know Tariq was a part of our heart and you have every
right to feel as if a dagger is being pierced through you. I
feel it too when I hear his name Sarim, but I want you to
know that we are together in this. We will not let this
disease do more damage than it has done. We will complete
what we started with Tariq: we will not just help Ustaad
Maroof find a cure; we will find it with him.”
“Do you really think after all this we can still find a cure
Manaal?”
“Ustaad Maroof told me he had something to disclose

today. I think he has found a clue Sarim. He asked me to
get you before coming as we can't do this with you, my
brother. Come on, get up or else I'll carry you if I have to.”
Manaal stepped back with a mischievous smile as Sarim
groaned and fetched his sword and a cloth to cover his face
as Tussis was airborne.
Winding through the streets of the once-bustling town

seemed as if living under siege where life had come to a
halt, with everyone taking refuge in the four walls of their
147
homes. As Sarim stood facing the man under whose

shadow he grew up, he could not bring himself to meet his
gaze. Instead, he absorbed his surrounding as if it was the
first time, he was stepping in. Ustaad Maroof's abode, a
small house tucked at the end of the street was called by the
locals a “mini house of wisdom” as Ustaad had tried to
maintain the aura he was brought up in. Rows of books
lined one of the walls whilst another one was occupied by
chemicals. As the night sky darkened, Manaal's voice
brought Sarim out of his train of thought.
“Ustaad I am telling you no one saw us coming here.

Why do you think were we, even me Ustaad, wearing a
freaking sipahi's (solider) uniform?” She exclaimed,
pointing to herself. Since the situation had gotten out of
control, the kind had imposed a curfew to limit the
interaction of people. So that left only one option for the
twins: disguise themselves as soldiers in clothes Manaal
had “borrowed” from the soldiers brought to the hospital.
Sighing, Ustaad got up and made his way to the table

occupied by Sarim. “Manaal must have told you that I have
something important to tell you both. I have given life to
my nights to find a cure for this calamity engulfing us.
Despite looking for months, I could not get my hands on
anything until I found this.”
At that, he gestured towards the page with inscriptions of

a heavy leather-bound book. “According to this, in ancient
times a similar disease had overtaken the world, but they
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Those Damned Lands
found a cure for it: Kadupul flower, better known as Raat ki

Rani (The queen of the night).”
“If the disease existed before and a cure had been found,
how is it possible that it's the first time we are hearing
about it, and no one has been able to find a cure till now?”
Manaal questioned.
“Due to the blood spilled in invasions from the north, all

this was lost with it. Everyone knows wherever those
wildlings invaded, they turned the land upside down so
whatever we have today has been built upon the ashes of
our ancestors.” Ustaad explained. “If only we had the
scrolls of the past, we wouldn't be here. But there's no
benefit in dwelling in the past when we can change our
present and future with the treasure we have gotten our
hands on.” At their confused faces, Ustaad laid out a map.
“So, there's only one obstacle in our path and that's

getting our hands on this Kadupul flower. According to my
research, the only place it grows is on Shams Island.”
“Shams!? As in the island from which no one ever

returned!” Manaal looked baffled at Ustaad.
“I know people have spun many tales about it with

threads of lies and truth. We cannot back up from this as
without the cure there would be no Debal left.”
“So, are you implying that Manaal and I go and get this
flower?” It was after a long that Ustaad had heard his
favorite student's voice, so naturally, he stared at him.
149
“That's exactly why I called you, my boy. You both can

be the key to our survival.” Ustaad looked from Manaal to
Sarim. “Before you even ask, I have to stay here to dispel
any clouds of doubt of the king. You know the situation: if
I leave, the small amount of control that we have over the
situation would be lost. My hands are tied as I can't leave
my patients in the hands of that king but you can be that
light at the end of this dark night, my children.”
Without even looking at his sister, Sarim knew that her

eyes would be gleaming. And they were. Manaal sat there
staring into the air with her black orbs illuminated by the
faint moonlight that streamed in. Manaal would not even
blink before agreeing but what about him? Wasn't this what
he had been looking for all this time after losing Tariq, he
couldn't bear losing his sister as well.
“Sarim, can I talk to you for a moment?” Ustaad's voice

broke him out of his train of worries.
“I can see the hesitance in your eyes, but I know why

that's there. You fear losing her like you lost Tariq. I
understand your worries my boy, but you can't let the
clutches of the past hold your present and future. Let this
journey be that awakening from this dark night that you are
residing in.”
“So how exactly will we reach Shams?” Manaal asked to

which Ustaad replied with a smirk “You leave that to me.”
*****
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Those Damned Lands
Under the cloak of the inky night, Manaal tugged at the

sails of the ship. The dense cloud cover only further slowed
them as using an oil lamp or even a fire torch would attract
the patrol soldiers. Fleeing Debal had been easier than they
had anticipated as Ustaad had already made the necessary
arrangements. Departing his house in a cart carrying wheat
to the docks, Sarim and Manaal took refuge under the
mountain of sacks. As the dock came in view, Manaal tore
open one of the sacks near the driver causing the cart to
come to a halt. Whilst the driver inspected the problem, the
twins fled from the back of the cart towards the ship
awaiting them.
Manaal gazed at the sea with longing in her eyes as she

had grown up under its shadow. However, due to the
epidemic, the king banned travel except for trade. Despite
this people sneaked out in trade ships, carrying Tussis with
them to other cities. As the sea breeze blew her hair, a shrill
escaped Manaal, causing Sarim to turn his attention from
the sails to his sister.
“Sarim, do you remember how one time we sneaked up to

the deck on a windy night, and when father learned of it, he
locked us in the store as there was no other way to stop
us?” Manaal reminisced laughing.
“And you picked the lock with your dagger, so we were
out after a couple of minutes. Then as a punishment father
didn't take us with him but rather left us with Ustaad
Maroof.” Sarim rolled his eyes.
151
“Imagine what our life would be if that event hadn't

happened. We would have never been exposed to the world
of knowledge had it not been for Ustaad. We wouldn't be
on this crazy mission even!” Manaal slumped against the
wooden pole. “It's true when they say it takes one event to
change the trajectory of your life.” At that Sarim inhaled a
deep breath and looked at the night sky as it darkened at the
approaching storm.
“Losing Tariq was that for me Manaal. The day we gave

his body to this sea, a part of me drowned with him. I…I
haven't been in the right mind since, but this trip can be that
trajectory for me. It can be that sliver of light I have been
seeking.”
The moment Sarim turned around was their trajectory as
a whirlwind hit their ship. One moment they were in the
tornado, with patches of wood slapping their faces, and the
next they were on a shore, thrown away as if a cannonball.
“Sarimmm” Manaal groaned, her head half-buried in the

sand. Every fiber of her body felt as if cut with a sword.
Laying down on her back, Manaal's groan only increased as
the sun's rays pierced her eyes.
“Where are we? How long have we been knocked out for
that it's morning already?” Sarim rubbed the sand out of his
eyes.
“You are in Manora, dear children.” A deep voice

answered, causing the twins to scramble to their feet.
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Those Damned Lands
Facing them was a man, unlike any person they had

encountered before. His emerald eyes seemed to pierce
even light as he scanned them from head to toe.
“We were supposed to go to...” Manaal got cut off in the

middle by the strange man.
“To Shams. You came here because I called you here.”

Looking at their confused faces, the man took out a pendant
from his pocket shaped into half an eagle. “Does this ring a
bell?”
At that Manaal immediately took out the pendant Ustaad

had given them before leaving with strict instructions: “No
matter what happens, always have the pendant with you or
Sarim. Don't keep it inside some bag or anything.” Ustaad's
pendent was the mirror image of that of the man's which
could mean that the man was
“Azam” The man answered her thoughts. At her confused

expression, he explained with a smirk “It was written on
your face what you were thinking. Anyhow, I am Azam.
Maroof must have mentioned me as he gave you the
pendant.”
“But this doesn't explain anything. What is this place?

How did we get here by just you calling? What...?” Sarim
was cut as Azam raised a hand. It seemed as if the words
from his tongue had fallen out.
153
“Maroof didn't mention you two asked this many

questions. Let's get you to my den and then we answer your
questions.”
One moment they were at the shore and the next they
were in a shanty shack. Manaal clutched Sarim's arm and
took a step back.
“What on earth just happened?” Bile rose in her throat as

she realized that she hadn't even taken a step yet and was in
another place.
“So, you won't stop before I answer. Maroof trained you

well.” Azam gestured to the stools that had not been there a
second ago. “I know you are skeptical of even sitting on
those stools, but this will take a while.” Still clutching his
arm with one hand and her sword with the other, Manaal
dragged the stool as far away from the man. After all of
this, is he even a man?
“It seems that Maroof told you only one half of the tale,
so let me complete it for you. Your initial destination was
Shams Island, but you should realize that's its name in your
dimension. It's not a place but rather a dimension door. Our
world has multiple dimensions. You can think of this as a
building with multiple floors. Human beings have excess to
the third floor only, so you live in the third dimension. To
go from one dimension to another you need a door that can
only be crossed if you are called. All those who try to cross
without being called disappear into an endless pit, hence all
those stories of people disappearing. This dimension door
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Those Damned Lands
leads to our dimension, the world of the jinn.” Hearing this

Manaal and Sarim looked at each other.
“The place you are in right now is Manora. Humans have
spun stories about us and passed them from one generation
to the next as ridiculous tales. But all stories have some
truth. As the jinn preceded humans, we are centuries ahead
of you in time. Time over here doesn't pass as it does in
your world, as one day in your world is equivalent to
multiple weeks here.”
“So that makes you a jinn as well.” Now Manaal looked
at him with the same piercing gaze he had used. But this
explained why Azam had a different aura, a non-human
aura about him. “But why did you call us when we were
looking for the Kadupul flower? What does this 'calling'
even mean?” Manaal looked at him quizzically.
“Maroof informed me about Tussis and the situation that's

there. As I said, we are centuries ahead of your dimension
so whatever is happening in your world has long surpassed
us. So, we don't have just the flower but the cure for the
disease. I called you using the pendent Maroof gave you.
It means that there are two mirror halves of one object
from our dimension and it's used to cross the dimension
gate, as without it you fall into that endless pit I mentioned.
There's more to the story children but first, we shall have
some chai, shall we?” As Azam snapped his fingers, each
of them had a steaming cup of chai in their hands, only to
have the twin look at him baffled.
155
“What? A jinn has to have his chai.” Taking a long sip,

Azam continued. “In the past humans and jinns have
'collaborated' and given shape to brilliant structures in your
dimensions like the pyramids in Misir (Egypt). The issue is
that if there is a conflict in this process, the situation gets
out of hand as due to our nature and dimension, we have an
upper hand”
“Are you implying that the Tussis outbreak is due to

some conflict?” Sarim inquired.
“Exactly. This pandemic is a result of dirty politics that
has been happening behind our king's back. The King of
Debal, Shayan, and our king, Ghassan are brothers. The
grand-vizier, Bozan, and your king have been in a long
collaboration, however, things got heated between them.
Their conflict turned into a political one when Shayan
learned of Bozan's dirty work and the fact he is betraying
our king, he threatened to tell the king.
Before he could do that, Bozan got him exiled accusing

him of treachery against the state with such realistic proof
that Ghassan not only exiled Shayan to your dimension but
restricted him in his human form as well. However, Bozan's
fear remained as there were rumors that Ghassan was
secretly looking out for Shayan. So, Bozan unleashed this
disease on your world in hope that it would help him get rid
of Shayan.”
The twins stared at him dumbfounded realizing that they

had been just a toy in this political game. Clearing her
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Those Damned Lands
throat, Manaal said “It seems as if all the pieces of the

puzzle are fitting together now. Our world is crumbling to
pieces due to this ridiculous political game! We can't let
our people suffer more due to one man. You mentioned that
you have the cure already over here, so how do we get our
hands on it?” At that Azam gave her a mischievous look
that indicated that things would not be going their way
from here.
*****
Clutching an illuminating stone in her hand, Manaal made

her way to the end of the corridor. Years of sneaking out
did not aid her as her heart hammered against her ribs. Yet
despite the fear evading every fiber of her body, she and
Sarim had taken up this mission to steal the cure from the
states' secret vault, a place where instead of treasures,
diseases, and their cures were preserved. Azam had spun
such a story that even Ustaad Maroof would believe
without batting an eyelid.
He had introduced them as assistants that Faisal, the aged

keeper of the vault, had asked Azam to find assistants for
him. Their background in chemistry and mathematics came
in handy as Faisal asked them question upon question.
Since Azam himself was a spy in the vault, he knew which
questions Faisal would bombard them with, so Manaal and
Sarim climbed the ladder of trust with their convincing
answers. Then begin the work of stealing the cure.
157
“If you already work there, why can't you take it?”
Manaal asked Azam. “They have these things called
detectors around that can sense our presence. But since they
are designed for jinns, they can't detect humans so you can
slide by without any issue.” Manaal just nodded, even
though she didn't understand a word.
The sea breeze caused Manaal to shiver as her eyes

adjusted to the door in front of her. According to their plan,
Sarim would be waiting outside the small window of the
vault, so it was up to her now. Taking a deep breath,
Manaal touched the cool metal surface and waited for a
sound to blare, indicating an intruder. But nothing
happened as Azam had said. She had mastered the art of
picking locks with her dagger but as she clutched the small
piece of metal, the strange key, her hands shook. Sweat
broke out at the tip of her brow as she touched the key to
the designated place. Manaal this is for your people, this is
what you came for. She reminded herself.
A clicking sound came as the door moved. This is a

vault? Manaal thought as she looked around. Moonlight
streamed in from the only small window in the room,
illuminating the rows of shelves with boxes lining the wall.
The walls were covered with patterns she had never seen
before whilst the floor glowed as if made of glass.
As the door closed behind her, Manaal gulped the bile

rising in her throat and turned her illuminating stone on.
She got to work as she checked every shelf in the vault
until her gaze landed on the Kadupul cure. With a sigh of
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Those Damned Lands
relief, Manaal opened the box only to find another piece of

metal in it. What's their obsession with these strange pieces
of metals? Shaking the box, she realized it was empty
except for that metal, so she tucked it into her bag.
Getting in had been easy, going out would be a hustle as

the window was located near the roof. Fishing out a
grappling hook from her bag, she threw one end towards
the window, praying that her aim would not disappoint her.
As the hook clicked, Manaal used it to climb toward her
escape. Gravity was different in this dimension or maybe
the jinn did not need it, so it took twice the effort to reach
the window. Manaal could see Sarim's silhouette from
there, so she whisper-yelled his name, a smile illuminating
her face.
As he turned around, all the blood drained from her face

when she realized that it was a guard holding a dagger to
Sarim's throat.
“Sarim?” Manaal exclaimed her voice wavering.
*****
The throne room seemed to loom over them as Manaal and

Sarim were ushered inside by the guards. With their hands
shackled, they made their way next to a person, a jinn to be
precise, kneeling on the floor. A gasp escaped them both
simultaneously as they realized that it was none other than
Azam who had been beaten up by guards. Smiling in pain,
159
he whispered, “This is the price we pay for standing up

against the tyrant.”
All the voices were shunned as King Ghassan made his
way in with the grand-vizier, Bozan, in a row. A sly smirk
was plastered over Bozan's face as he took his place next to
the King's throne. As a man in court robes stepped forward
and read the charges against them, Manaal realized that it
was the end. All that their people had suffered, the effort
they had made had been in vain. As disdain filled her
bloodstream, she felt Sarim grasping her hand and giving
her a reassuring smile. It could be the last time I see it.
Just as the court man finished, the door flew open behind
a man in a simple blue robe. As he made his way to the
king's dais, gasps of shock and whispers echoed as they
realized that it was none other than King Shayan.
“What is this traitor doing here? How dare you step into
the land you betrayed!” Bozan’s voice boomed.
The King raised a hand, causing the entire court to fall

silent. Raising from his seat, he said “What is your business
here Shayan when you were exiled from our land?”
“My king I come here to only rescue my people from the

evil plots of this man.” He said pointing at Bozan. Bozan's
eyes flared with anger as the King asked Shayan to explain.
“I received a letter from Azam stating that two of our
people were in Manora. He sent me a letter as soon as he
sensed that Bozan had learned of their mission. I cannot let
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them fall victim to Bozan's vile games.” The court erupted

in shouts as saying anything against the grand vizier meant
saying it against the state.
“I come here bearing evidence of Bozan's betrayal and his

dirty games. To silence me, initially, he got me exiled with
false charges. Then, he unleashed the Tussis on Debal,
hoping that I would die of this deadly disease.” Shayan
gave the scrolls he was holding to the court man as he gave
Sarim, Manaal, and Azam a reassuring look.
As Ghassan scanned the scrolls, all the color drained from
Bozan's face as he realized this was the end of the road for
him. Cautiously, he took steps back from the dais, hoping
no one would notice. However, as the king's stern gaze fell
on him, he ordered the guards to catch Bozan.
“Throw this traitor in the dungeon. I will deal with him

myself.” Ghassan said as Bozan was shackled.
Turning his attention to the twins and Azam “You have
still committed a crime by stealing the cure. However,
looking at the situation in the city, you have my pardon and
freedom to return to your dimension. As for Shayan, you
stay here so that we can resolve our issues.”
With the cure in hand, Sarim and Manaal sailed back to

the city after all that chaotic adventure. The sea was painted
in hues of pink and yellow as the last patches of darkness
were expelled not only from the sky but their lives as well.
161
Beyond Where the River Flows
by
Zeryab Khan
Those Damned Lands
“21st March 1838.
Jaan, it has been a tiring day. The battalion has

successfully made it across darya Shishi, and we now
progress onwards to Afghanistan.
We also came across a field of motia today, and it

reminded me of how you absolutely loved picking them
out from the garden bushes.
Oh how much I miss you, Jaan
home and hold you in my arms once again! I hope ammi
jaan has been doing better since the accident. If you ever
need anything, tell Rahul, h
I’ll write to you again soon

hours away. I’ll post the le
about me. I am in the best shape possible.
Khuda Hafiz.”
I put the feather pen in the pocket of my uniform, its ink

still fresh, set the page down, and lost myself in my
thoughts. I really couldn’t wait to be back with her: to hold
her close, feel her frail and delicate arms tightening around
my waist, and her auburn hair with the strong smell of
lavender oil and the sweet, faint scent of raat ki
163
raani finding its way into my nose. I couldn’t wait to, once
again, be there for her.
“Soroush! Salman made daal!” My thoughts were
interrupted by my peer, Reza. I nodded to him in
confirmation, as I picked the bound memo up, previous
letters bulging out from it, and put the paper within one of
the folds and slipped it into my bag.
As I walked up to the steaming pot of daal, carefully set

on a heap of firewood, I saw a dark shadow swiftly move
from within the edges of the woods from the corner of my
eye. But upon squinting my eyes and seeing nothing, I paid
no heed to it whatsoever. It would be common for animals
to come visit these four-limbed creatures, residing in a
meadow surrounded by tall rocks; their dark, translucent
surfaces popping out in places from behind the dense
creepers, and towering cedar trees. Or, I was seeing things;
insanity was typical for soldiers, although it was hard to
believe that such an effect would arise before the battle had
even begun.
The horizon was a vast outline of shallow hills: the motia,

seemingly a layer of pastel white snow hiding the dense,
tall plants underneath, and the sky, enshrouded in all the
shades of peach and purple clouds that often separated to
reveal a dark mauve sky dotted with glittering stars.
“Soroush!” she exclaimed, as
the field.
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Those Damned Lands
The sun was nowhere in sight, but her skin glittered like
diamonds in the glow the clouds reflected. Her smile was
everything I could ask for. It held warmth and comfort, as
well as the very meaning of home. It was my haven through
everything in life.
Just then, the ground I stood on began to shift. The

flowers shriveled and collapsed back into the very spots
they had once blossomed from. The sudden disappearances
revealed the earth, heads and limbs not revealing a single
inch of the soil underneath, drowned in blood and rotting
matter.
The instinct to scream out of sheer madness overtook me,

but it felt as if I had no mouth. Skeletal structures with long
fingers appeared from below the surface, black ooze
dripping down and darkening the blood to an
unrecognizable colour, grabbing onto my ankles and
pulling me down with inhumane strength. Shouts of men
echoed through the skies, the words beyond
comprehension, and drew nearer and nearer, while the
earth shook mightily, as if ready to throw its burdens up,
and there I was, amid the chaos, drowning within the pool
of maroon, the sight of clouds growing dimmer and dimmer
as darkness began to surround me.
I woke up to the shouts of a fellow soldier, “Si- Sir! Iqbal
is dead, sir!” amid rather loud pants, his lungs
overwhelmed by the sudden panic and excitement injected
by a sight we could only imagine. My breath shook
violently, and beads of sweat trickled down my forehead
165
and collected on my eyelashes. I wiped my face with my

sleeve and composed myself to see what the excitement
was about. Reza, the light sleeper he was, jolted upright
next to me.
“Did the enemy attack?!” he exclaimed quietly, confusion

and terror rather prominent in his tone. I shifted around to
unzip the opening, only to find men sleepily emerging from
their tents, worry ingrained in the wrinkles of their faces in
the fire’s bright glow, and Salman stumbling across the
campfire, towards Sir Brighton’s tent, his legs trembling
either out of injury or out of fright. Sir Brighton, lazily
revealed himself to the outside atmosphere from within his
tent, asking in a rather calm and stable tone, “What
happened, Salman?”
“I found- found Iqbal, sir! He- He’s dead.” Salman

exclaimed amid aggressive breaths, struggling to be able to
catch his breath.
“Take me to him, will you?” Sir Brighton said, patting his

shoulder on the clumsy walk past Salman while every
single soldier present seemed afraid of whatever stalked us
under the protection of the woods.
We steadily walked through the dense forest, our rifles

ready under our arms in case we encountered whatever
killed him. Our footsteps were surprisingly inaudible, our
breaths spiraled into the chilly air, up towards the stars and
crickets chirped from the bases of the tall trees. The clouds
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Those Damned Lands
had moved on and let the moon shine its mighty glow to
reveal the narrow path that snaked between the tall trees.
We were approaching a small clearing, and all I could see
was one thin line of a stream flowing stealthily, finding its
way by breaking into branches and reuniting again through
the gigantic boulders blocking its path. But the hushed
gasps were enough to confirm that everyone else saw the
same sight I did.
One of the rocks was drenched in a thick, maroon fluid

that drooped slowly down its edges and onto a pile of
waste. All I could recognize of it was a uniform torn to
shreds and a heap of putrid matter. The very sight of it
made me sick and I lost all appetite.
Sir Brighton steadily approached the sight. His hands

trembled as he slowly set them onto the tree trunks and
rocks, lifting his foot high behind him with every step, his
eyes bulging out of his skull as horror flowed through our
veins.
He bent down next to the remains and looked closely at

the silver tag that read ‘Iqbal’, as if to confirm for himself
that someone had, indeed, been made away with.
“We have to leave. Now!” he shouted, with everything he

had, as he turned around to run, startling everyone behind
him.
The ranks were broken, and every single man had now
lent himself to confusion and fright. We were not sure what
167
we were afraid of, nor what we were running towards, as

everyone ran in various directions; some in pairs and some
alone, their silhouettes disappearing within the steady
rolling mist the moon’s glow illuminated amongst the
trees.
Back at the campsite, discord had found its seeds. Only a

few had found their way back, scenes of emergency
surrounding us. As I hurried to my tent, Reza came out, his
bag already on his back, and mine in his hands, throwing it
at my feet. Just then, the campfire erupted, dancing high in
the sky, latching itself onto the trees outlining the meadow,
as well as the people within, roaring immensely in the
process. It looked as if its thirst was unquenchable, and that
it would mercilessly devour anything that lay in its path, as
it now began to surround us, blocking us from any exits and
the ones outside from any entrance.
Seemingly, nothing but chaos engulfed us in its dark

form. All hope of returning home safe and sound now
drowned under a surface of immense terror, above an
endless trench of trepidation. It was simply a humane
instinct to begin thinking about the comfort of home at a
time like this. We knew not what cast dread into the
deepest depths of our hearts, but all we were sure of was
that we must, at all costs, get away from here as swiftly as
possible. This wasn’t the work of men or mere animals, this
was the work of something far beyond comprehension.
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Those Damned Lands
As kids, we learned stories of jinnat, rakshus

and churails; creatures with humanoid figures yet terrifying
attributes. The only common feature they all held was that
they often thirsted for the blood of men, and would either
resort to seducing and trapping lone travelers in their lairs
or killing them on sight. However, when we crossed the
river, we were not aware of the creatures that ruled this
land, the same one we entered without their consent, and
now, we were simply at their mercy. Whether they would
spare us, or devour us, we knew not.
Most men, now burnt, lay to their sides, their skin soot
black, and their faces, frozen in panicked expressions. This
was no ordinary fire. It seemed as if it had descended from
the depths of Hell itself, and found its abode here, with us,
its victims. Faint flames danced atop the bodies, while I
stood in utter shock, failing to move any part of me, tears
gathering in my eyes at the deep belief that I would not be
returning to the person who gave me a reason to breathe.
Just when I managed to finally muster the courage to

move, the fire parted, slipping left and right, revealing the
darkness of the woods beyond, as well as a sable steed,
emerging from the center. No man could believe its
magnificently tall, lithe, figure, its jade black coat
reflecting the fire’s glow, and its woolly raven hair
sheathing its eyes, its nose sticking out, parting the locks.
However, its legs weren’t that of a horse’s. They seemed to
be made of leaden iron, their hooves hitting hard against
the firm ground, each step resounding louder and louder. Its
169
extensive leather reins were delicately held by svelte,

attenuated fingers.
The rider was no different. She had a slender figure,
draped in obsidian silks that shined in the autumn glow of
the flames afar, just like the stallion’s fur. Her face and
neck were enwrapped in a much darker fabric, and her inky
translucent scarf, set firmly upon her head, stretched from
the very ends of her fingers to the skirt of her grand ride.
She was the embodiment of death itself, or a harbinger of
it. No part of her skin was revealed to the air around her,
but her very presence was petrifying.
I was engaged in their sublime allure when I saw a set of

lustrous eyes, glowing crimson from within the stallion’s
locks. Its gaze sent me into a paralyzing terror, and then
silence struck. A warm stream of liquid flowed down both
ears and dripped onto my shoulders. My nose felt warm
and in a moment I tasted iron on my lips. All I could now
hear were low hums from heavy throats, originating from
the tall mountains in the distance and echoing through the
skies, as I slipped into dizziness out of insanity, my eyes
betraying me and all vision darkening around me, till I
stepped into oblivion.
“I’ll follow you to the ends

into Hell. I swear to you that my heart will yearn for you in
your absence and that I’ll fo
“May we meet again under the
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Those Damned Lands
The bridge collapsed, and we fell through the skies, tears

escaping into the air and shi
our hands eventually drawn apart while gravity pulled us
back down into a world of affliction; our end.
“Soroush!” A voice echoed f

muffled.
“Soroush!” It echoed again,
“Soroush!” I woke up with a jerk, grabbing Reza’s collar

in the process, who was crouched next to me.
“Relax!” He said as he flinched back, a breath escaping

his mouth out of relief.
I let go of him and fell prey to an intense throbbing in my

head. It banged against my eyes and didn’t seem to slow
down at all.
“What happened?” I asked with a groan, bringing my

hand up to my head as if it would ease the pain.
“There was another exit, through the fire. You fell to the
ground unconscious so I had to haul you all the way here.”
“And the others?” I asked, wondering if we were the only

ones with luck.
“I saw some run East.” He said, with urgency.
“Where are we?”
“North-West. I had overheard Sir Brighton talking with
the chief before the troops were separated. There’s a camp
171
in the village behind that mountain there.” He said, turning

around and pointing to a densely snow-capped peak, about
10 klicks or so due West. “They’ll meet us there.”
I sat there in agony, my back against the smooth tree

trunk, under its shade from the moonlight. I still needed
time to calm myself and collect my thoughts.
After a minute or two of silence between us, I finally

asked, “What was that thing?” Reza was still looking out
into the distance, at the mountains, and turned around
rather dramatically. His eyes were filled with apprehension
and deep distress as if his very soul had been affected by
the horrors of tonight.
“I thought they were just stories.” He finally said, staring

at the ground. It was as if his eyes could speak when his
mouth failed to. The sight we saw borne in us an
eradication of hope and the feeling of being doomed to
death by Tartarean punishments. We were simply
playthings stuck in the fabric of this world, one we were
warned about in our childhood innocence but grew up to
ignore as it was ‘a scare to make us fall asleep’. Had fear
not been indoctrinated in us, we would simply have
submitted to their wrath, unaware of the potential tortures
we would have soon become sufferers of.
“Will we make it out from this?” He asked, a solitary tear

escaping his left eye and trickling down his cheek,
sparkling in the bright moonlight. He had no family to go
to, yet the way he asked me this led me to believe that he,
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Those Damned Lands
did want to go back to civilization, even after having heard

his wishes of wanting to live in peace and seclusion,
somewhere amongst the hills where he couldn’t be found.
We had been exposed to sights we were not meant to see. I
was, then, reminded of the stallion’s gaze; how it pierced
through my soul and entered deep into my heart, laying
bare my mind to dark visions: a town drowning in blood,
shapeless forms flowing through the air hither and thither
and forcing their way into dead bodies, enormous palaces
falling to the ground, and a dusky vermillion moon amid a
sky raining drops of maroon. Perhaps it was a scene of
resurrection, although we knew not what it would look like,
since only the Lord in the heavens knew.
Reza had fallen asleep while I kept on the lookout, my

sight and earshot having fully recovered. We couldn’t risk
encountering another entity, as we were poorly armed and
exhausted. But to my dismay, an inhumane and eerie shriek
resounded from within the woods, with enormous vigor,
echoing against the trees, sending nesting birds flying out
of alarm and excitement in disparate courses. Reza lurched
awake, immediately looking at me, and peeking from
around the tree trunk to look for the source of the sound.
His hand lifted, quivering, looking for mine as if to

confirm that I was still there. And he had, indeed, seen
something. He turned around, rather slowly, his eyelids
thrown aback out of pure dread. Nothing could compare to
the sight back at camp. So, to fulfil my satisfaction, I got up
steadily and placed my foot carefully between Reza’s
173
spread knees, bending to steal a quick look from behind the

tree’s protection and not risk being discovered.
There, in the distance, amid the dim moonlight, stood a
crooked figure. It resembled an elk, yet immensely
frightening. Its lower body was slim and narrow, with fur
an autumn white covered in patches here and there,
including its hooves, but the real horrors lay above its
navel. Its enormous ribs were exposed to its surroundings,
as no skin draped them. It’s back possessed an unusual
bend, to support its mighty chest. Veins snaked across its
muscular arms, with thin elbows and a gigantic hand
branching into five, exceedingly lengthy, slender fingers,
all owners of further elongated and keen Stygian claws
dripping with drops of maroon, and strung in threads of red
organic matter, staining the miniature, white poppies it
stood on. It had no skin on its skull either. It was a
monstrous, bare, head, devoid of any coat nor fur, with a
razor-sharp set of fangs of substantial length. Its eyes
glowed a bright azure, and the iris, a lighter cyan, moved
animatedly as it scanned its surroundings. Its midnight
black horns were greater than a man in length, stretching
from above its magnificent eyes and branching out into the
open.
Again, I stood observing its supernatural beauty, having

forgotten the threat it potentially posed. Reza grabbed my
arm and pulled me back, landing me on the ground, but to
my surprise, on top of a dry part of the tree trunk, uprooted
from within the grass.
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Those Damned Lands
I could hear the echoes of the crack, as a ferocious

creature designed to kill roamed not far from us. Another
shriek resounded through the woods, once again, but this
time louder. The earth shook with every step it took
towards us. I could only imagine its hooves hitting and
shallowing the ground, and its claws digging deep into the
earth and pushing its body forward with immense strength.
“Run!” Reza cried out, pushing off against the tree trunk,
leaving his bag behind, and I followed suit. We had only
covered a few yards when I looked back, to find the beast
nowhere in sight. My steps had begun to slow down out of
sub consciousness and the belief that it was not, in fact,
coming after us. The bellow sounded a third time, this time
to my right. Dread, once again, shot through my veins, as I
shot a look towards the woods, and saw it heading in my
direction.
It jumped up, high into the air, the stars in its background,
and I was prepared for sweet death to take me away. I
wouldn’t be seeing my jaan again, nor would I ever be able
to meet my sweet little angel, whose name we had yet not
thought of. I would never be able to lay my head on ammi
jaan’s lap again, nor will I ever listen to her narrations of
grand tales of yore. Reza would be left unaided to survive
this epic ordeal. My soul would travel the seven skies and
reunite with the Almighty, and I wouldn’t live to tell the
story. I closed my eyes, ready to step into a different world.
Reza’s screams were louder than ever, and I felt death
surround me.
175
An object against a whip bounced off, the string

vibrating, and a swift whistle blew above my right
shoulder. A loud thud sounded dead in front of me, and I
opened my eyes to see a lengthy stick buried deep in the
creature’s head, having penetrated through its skull, the
body flat against the earth, completely motionless.
I turned around to see people of considerable heights,

perhaps a feet or two taller than me, but they weren’t, in
fact, human beings. They had marvellous feathered wings
that glimmered in blackened shades of various colours in
the ethereal glow of the moon. Their milky white skin
glowed like diamonds in the moonlight, pure chiffon
fabrics loosely draped around their bodies, up to their necks
and kissing the ground, covering their broad chests and
arms, while for the ladies, an extension stretched to their
heads, protecting their waist-long auburn brown hair topped
with garlands of motia, and the men had handsomely short
hair. However, the one who held the bow and his female
companion had dark brown skin. They had permed black
hair, motia set here and there instead of in a garland like the
rest. Their skin, too, shined like diamonds and reflected the
moonlight almost as if it was a reflective surface. Their
wings were entirely a smooth, inky, ashen colour. No
human could believe how alluring they looked, men and
women alike. Their blue and green eyes were seemingly
gems as they possessed a dim gleam. I could not tell which
was more ethereal, the moon looming above the shallow
hill they stood on, or themselves.
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Those Damned Lands
And amongst these seven people stood a little herd of

abnormally tall markhor, with grey manes and their horns
curling out into the air around them as they stood lofty out
of pride. They were peris. I’d heard stories about them,
about how they once ruled the people of the North before
civilization sprung up, and shepherded herds of mountain
goats, controlling the forces of nature and providing peace
and fertility to the lands. They were beings we were not to
fear, because the people of yore would not have coexisted
with them if they were hungry for human flesh.
Reza slowly moved towards me, both our sights fixed on

the people before us. They did not blink, not even once, and
we stood there for minutes, gawking at each other, till they
shifted to continue their journey.
“Wait!” I exclaimed with a step or two forward, desperate

for any way out of here. They looked back at me, and I was
once more fascinated by their mesmerizing beauty. “We
beg you, please! Take us with you! Everything here is out
to get us!” Reza pleaded, dropping to his knees, his hands
folded and his head bowed out of esteem.
Just then, a deafening whistle flooded our ears. It felt as if

I would lose all hearing and be subjected to ghastly visions
once more. I pushed my palms to my ears to make it stop
but to no avail, falling to my knees, my elbows on the
ground, screaming for mercy. My head began to pound
harder than ever; the immense pain leading me to question
whether I was still alive or not.
177
Mercifully, it stopped. It did not fade away, but rather,

completely disappeared, and with its culmination, a
beautiful and eloquent voice of a lady spoke: “You were
not meant to come here.” Desperation, once again, got the
better of me. Perhaps we had transgressed a certain
boundary unknowingly by asking them for help, but we
needed it direly.
“Where does your destination lie?” A male voice asked,

silvery and smooth, but it was then that I realized they were
not moving their mouths. These voices were in our heads,
the torture having been a portal into our minds as this was
their way of communication.
“West,” I said, pointing to the peak in the distance.
They looked at the mountain first, and then at each other,

their eyes growing wide and their eyebrows furrowing.
“How do you mortals dare come near our domain?!” This

time, his voice was harsh and hoarse, and with it originated
another sound, as if both his body and his soul exclaimed
out of tune. I knew not who said it, but the man with the
bow produced another arrow from behind his winged back,
and set it on the grip aimed between my eyes.
I, once again, was overcome by despondency. These

creatures were sadistic, as every single encounter led to
drowning hopes and the intense fear of death just when we
would think we’d been freed from a dreadful curse.
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Those Damned Lands
The woman closest to us rushed towards him, and

lowered his arrow with her hand, staring intensely at him
with anger and a hint of vexation. After a minute or two of
changing facial expressions, they turned back to us, and the
female voice we’d heard before now spoke once again:
“You are our guests and we wish you no harm. But that
mountain is where our kingdom lies, and the presence of a
mortal threatens its very existence. There is a river behind
the hills in the North, and that is where our boundaries lie.
We are not allowed to go beyond it, but we will take you
there, if you wish.” I immediately nodded, thankful that
they provided the opportunity, and so, Reza and I walked
back.
We picked our bags up, and walked towards them,

wondering what we will be mounting. They then got onto
the markhor, and looked at Reza and I to do the same. I,
with confusion, never having heard of people riding goats,
tried mounting it without any saddle nor stirrup many
times, but failed, whereas Reza got onto it on the first try.
One of the men, the one with jet black hair on the sides and
porcelain white on the rest of his head, got off his ride,
embarrassingly picked me up by the armpits, and placed me
onto it. He gently took my right hand in both of his, a dim
fiery glow glimmering from within the grasp, warming my
hands for better grip, reminding me of Lahore’s spring
season, and placed them onto the goat’s mane, with a gentle
smile, as if I was an infant. But compared to their lifetime,
we, human beings were, indeed, infants, as they lived for
millennia and knew the secrets of the world.
179
One of the peris produced a blinding cobalt blue orb in

her hands and delicately brought her right hand up,
releasing it into the air. The object flashed through the air,
and exploded at the back of the herd, sending our unusual
steeds dashing further away from the woods. Their speed
was rather swift, and we raced above the hill and down
below across plains home to stretches of dandelions, their
ligules fluttering towards the stars, high into the air above
the herd’s trail. The chilly air rushed past our ears, and
instead of whistles, a gentle and deep hum of changing
tunes flooded our ears. Although hope began to brew, I
now levelled it to a plain that wouldn’t disappoint me in
case we were to encounter anything on our way back to
civilization.
We approached the creek. The markhor had steadily

slowed down to a brisk walk, breathing lightly, barely
exhausted by the run. The moon had disappeared behind us
and now rose the sun before us, its twilight outlining the
dense clouds above in brilliant scarlets and reds, with slight
patches of hot magenta. The markhor stopped where the
boundaries of the woods of looming cedar trees lay. Reza
and I looked at each other, aware that we were now safe
and that no harm could threaten us in the light of day and
risk being discovered.
The marsh reflected colors of a dark green, making

prominent an extensive wooden fence, and a small village
about four klicks away. I heard Reza’s gasp as soon as he
saw it, followed by continuous prayers thanking the Lord,
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Those Damned Lands
and so I did the same. I thanked God for keeping us safe

and out of harm’s way, and I asked Him to bless these kind
creatures who accompanied us for our safety, even when it
meant effort and risk for them.
We got off, hopping onto the ground, bustling with

energy and renewed aspiration despite the tiring journey.
Our company did the same, and as Reza ran out into the
field, I stayed back. “Who is the figurehead amongst you?”
I asked, in a low tone out of respect, taking a step forward.
The same man who had helped me mount the ride stepped
forward, an air of solemnity about him. “Thank you.” I
said, bringing my right hand up and holding it firm for him
to shake. From under the cover of his gown, he extended
his hand and shook mine, warming it once again as we
were now to part and set afoot, back to the world we came
from, where people were not aware of the presence of other
beings apart from us.
I reached into my bag, and fished out my golden

compass. My father had entrusted it to me when I last saw
him, about two decades ago, when I was only a little child,
and he had left for war, never having returned. And now, I
wanted the saviours of my life to have it, even though I
would never see them again nor would it establish a
connection with them.
“Come on, Soroush!” Reza shouted from the marsh out of

pure joy and excitement, turning around to see a grin
ingrained ear to ear on his face.
181
Upon looking back at them, they bowed their heads down

and turned their awing winged backs towards me, the herd
following after them, and I stood still, watching, till I saw
the very last of them, till they disappeared among the trees.
“Farewell, traveller.” A gentle and low male voice

echoed through the woods, almost a whisper. A warm and
slow breeze rustled through the willows, the forest bidding
me goodbye.
182
The Mystical Night of Marghab
by
Mahik Sohail
The Mystical Night of Maghrab
The sweet strings of sugary syrup dangling from the

velvety jalebi aroused a feeling of vigour as the sixteen-
year-old stared up at the vendor, her eyes glistening and
mouth salivating. Her small demeanor tumbled back due to
the pool of men circling the vendor, their shoulders tightly
packed against one another. She caught sight of flies
swarming the delicacy, probably tasting some of its sweet
nectar. If only she were a delicate fly who could buzz
through the robust giants and taste the scrumptious dessert.
She grumbled in silent frustration.
As a week remained till Eid-ul-Adha, the narrow gully of

Lahore, Shad Bagh had slowly transformed into a busy
bazaar. Goats and cattle were tied to every adjacent door
whilst the remaining space was occupied with vendors of
vibrant Punjabi
clothes: shalwar, kameez, gharara and churidar pajama, as
well as, colorful bangles and paranda, all of which was
circled with bargaining women in burqas. Taking
advantage of the scorching weather, the old man sold his
Kulfis at double the price which the fathers begrudgingly
bought for their spoilt brats.
‘Allahu Akbar.’
The dominant sound of the athaan reverberated within

the sky, alerting the crowd. Everyone paused-even the
greedy man holding a melting kulfi. Suddenly everyone
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Those Damned Lands
was fleeing as if they had heard the horn of Israfeel. The

salesmen stranded their vendors and quarreling women
stormed back home, pushing the bleating goats aside. The
overcrowded bazaar was now back to the familiar alley.
The recent deposition of Pakistan’s eighth prime minister

had led to the imposition of martial law under the rule of
Zia Ul Haq, who was a firm believer of Islamization
policies. Along with purdah and banishment of co-
education, it was rumored that anyone who carried out
business deals during the call of prayer would have to pay a
heavy fine, thus amounting to people
prioritizing namaz (prayer).
The brunette, who stood admiring the vacant view,

cradled her dupatta softly in her hand and smiled callously,
her gaze trained at the neglected jalebi.
Gallivanting forward, the scent of juicy syrup diffused

through her nose and she smiled in appeasement. Suddenly
she heard a shrill voice.
“Hala!” The obnoxious voice called out, which she

recognized as her phupho’s
(father’s sister).
Hala stood frigid. She dejectedly turned and found her

phupho, red in the face, gripping the corner of her
disorderly dupatta as if she had hurriedly shrugged it on.
Her black eyes reflected disdain as she habitually chewed
on the naswar settled in the corner of her cheek.
“Get inside,” she instructed.
185
Hala looked back at the jalebi, her eyes clinging to every

spiral morphing into a pretzel. Then she looked back at
phupho’s dark gaze, tearing through her soul.
Phupho’s terror won as Hala dispiritedly walked away

from the vendor.
Phupho ushered her into the cramped door of their house,

dragging her to the living room. “How many times have I
told you to not go out after marghreb?” She scolded.
Hajra and Sana were huddled against the dressing table,

their hands stained with mehndi (henna). Upon noticing
Hala, they jumped to their feet.
“Hala, you should get your mehndi done

by ammi (mother). Look, it’s so pretty,” Hajra, Razia
phupho’s eldest daughter squealed, swinging her hand back
and forth teasingly.
Hala scornfully swatted her arm away. “It stinks!” She
retorted in dismay.
“What girl doesn’t like mehndi? Ammi even dyes her hair
with it. You’re so weird,” Hajra glowered and Hala
shrugged nonchalantly.
Oddly enough, Hala Imran shared no interests similar to
the girls in her town. It was always a concern of her fretting
phupho that Hala was born with too many outrageous
ambitions. For instance, at one of her cousin’s wedding,
Hala joined the men during bhangra, which sparked a
scandalous wave of gossip through the elderly; Hala
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Those Damned Lands
sometimes bribed phupho’s seventeen-year-old son, Ahad,

with two rupee coins to let her ride his motorbike; she even
smuggled some banned qisse (novels) from Ahad when he
travelled to Karachi for work.
‘Oh, she’s a motherless child. Poor soul, no wonder she

doesn’t act right.’ The aunties would say.
Her mother, Zarmina Gul, was a Pathan beauty with blue

eyes and dimpled smile. Apparently, her father had fallen
madly in love with her on a trip to the northern city and
coveted her. From a young age, Zarmina had a weak heart.
Following the birth of a child, her health deteriorated and
she passed away.
“Hala, go soak some rice. Abu (father) will be home

soon,” phupho commanded in her authoritative voice.
Hala lethargically lumbered to the small kitchenette,

opposite the living room. She usually grabbed two handfuls
of rice from the sack and that was filling enough for the
entire family; however, today the sack shrunk to the floor
after just one handful.
“Eid’s in three days. Abu will fill it up soon,” her phupho

reminded and then sauntered away. Hala nodded
knowingly.
As well as a holy festival, Eid was something like a

fortune for her family because her father, Imran Chaudhry,
was a Qasai (butcher). During the year, his income was
hardly dependable but once Eid rolled in, daal
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chawal (lentil and rice) were put to a halt and spicy meat
dishes like biryani and koftas filled their home.
Whilst Hala soaked the rice, she suddenly remembered
the request she had posed to Ahad and quickly settled the
bowl of rice onto the counter, dashing towards the living
room. She carefully scrutinized the room. Confirming that
phupho was nowhere in sight, she secretly whispered to
Hajra.
“Is Ahad home yet?” Giddily, she asked.
Phupho disliked Hala meeting up with her son,

suggesting it was ‘inappropriate’ because she was a ‘big’
girl. Hala never paid it much heed because Ahad was her
only true friend.
Hajra nodded. “He’s up feeding the sheep,” she

elaborated.
Hala was already pacing out, racing up the rickety stairs,
her chappal thudding against the wooden surface as she
rushed to the rooftop. Mounting the last step, she noticed
the door to the rooftop was wide ajar.
“Ahad!” She squealed.
Hala was instantly hit with a cool breeze, weaving
through her hair, cascading down her petite frame. As
compensation for the daytime’s vicious heat, Lahore’s
nighttime was soothingly cool. Her father and male cousins
normally laid out their charpai on the rooftop, but at the
moment, their qurbani (sacrificial) sheep were tied there.
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Those Damned Lands
She noticed Ahad towering against the bulkiest sheep,

feeding it some fodder. He turned to face Hala, his face
adorning a soft smile.
“To what do I owe the honour?” He gloated, his blue eyes

gleaming like stars in the airspace.
Hala marched ahead, standing before the sheep. “Stop

feeding him. He needs a diet otherwise he’ll burst like a
balloon before Eid arrives,” she teased as Ahad held out
another straw. Before Ahad could defend the impatient
animal, the sheep seemed to snarl and jump towards Hala.
Hala gasped, cowering behind Ahad’s tall stature, holding

onto the edge of his kameez fearfully. He chuckled and
pushed the sheep’s head, reprimanding it. It seemed to
work since the boisterous sheep backed off, joining the
other two in slumber.
Hala released the strong grip on Ahad.
“See, don’t call him fat again or he’ll stomp over you,”
Ahad ridiculed, a smirk lifting his lips.
Hala scoffed, sitting atop the bricked edge of the wall.
“Oi, get off!” Ahad yelled. His face flashed red as he

yanked her off the edge. He gritted his teeth in
disappointment.
“Okay, now, tell me, did you get it for me?” She
impatiently asked and he rolled his eyes, lips twisting into a
slight smile.
189
“Of course, you would come for that,” he sarcastically

remarked and then stepped towards the bag which laid
abandoned on the messy floor. He unzipped the side pocket
and grabbed the item.
As he held it out, Hala’s excitement skyrocketed and she

pounced forward like a stray cat, latching onto it. There it
was, the qissa she had requested: Dastan of Zulaikha and
Yusuf. Hala touched the novel with admiration and slid her
thumb along the brittle pages of the novel, the harsh texture
forming calluses on her soft skin. Satiated, she sighed with
glee.
“You like it so much, huh?” Ahad questioned.
Hala nodded. “When I read, the world around me turns to

dust,” she explained, which made absolutely no sense to
Ahad but he didn’t bother questioning her.
“Don’t get caught, again.”
Reminded of the time her phupho found the books,

Hala’s blood went cold. As martial law was installed, many
novels were banned for promoting ‘indecency’. Booksellers
were obliged to burn romance works, due to which, they
faced difficulties supporting their household. Huge losses
impelled them to change professions and search for
employment in developing industrial sectors.
Ahad was fifteen when he was sent to Karachi to join his
father and work in the coalfields. Remembering Hala’s love
for romance novels, he was compelled to befriend former
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booksellers and smuggle novels back to Lahore for her

enjoyment.
Once, phupho found a novel wrapped up in Hala’s
clothes and beat her till her body was scarred with lashes.
When Ahad returned, he noticed the bruises on Hala’s neck
and retaliated against his mother by leaving earlier for
Karachi, without saying goodbye. That night, a tearful
phupho apologized to Hala.
“Do you love someone?” Ahad’s voice interrupted her

train of thought. “Huh--?” She blinked.
“Most of these are classic romances,” he explained,

seating himself on the ground as he stared at the navy sky.
Hala folded her arms and imitated his actions. The silence
prolonged. Then she shook her head discreetly. “I refuse to
ever love,” she concluded and something dark flicked in
Ahad’s eyes, his face losing color.
“Why?” He rasped, his persistent gaze surveying Hala.
“Despite proving their love time and time again, Ranjha’s

fate was to eat that last morsel of poisoned laddu and die
beside Heer. Sahiba’s care for her brothers killed Mirza and
destroyed her too. Such was the love of Majnu that
everyone forgot his name and remembered him as the man
drunk in love with Laila.”
Hala tightened the arm around her knees, her vision

blurring. “My mother’s love for her child took her life.”
Her voice wobbled.
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If loving someone was so painful, why did people choose

to love at all? Why live the misery of longing for
someone?
“If ammi didn’t love me, she would have lived a beautiful
life too,” Hala choked.
She felt the warmth of Ahad’s palm against her shoulder.

He patted gently, calming her distraught mind.
“No one can guarantee that, Hala,” Ahad consoled, his

hand holding onto hers. “When you love someone, you
don’t think about the end,” Ahad rasped. Hala looked up.
She stilled.
Ahad was staring.
His ocean eyes were a raging storm, vigorously searching

for something within Hala. The gaze held her captivated,
powerless. It awakened a restless bug inside her stomach.
She felt her heart pound against her chest, struggling to tear
out and land onto his palm.
Serene silence surrounded their anxious hearts.
Golden streaks of sunlight transcended the sky, beaming

arrogantly through the pillow clouds. The globe of heat
shined upon Lahore, spreading its warmth magnanimously.
On the contrary, strokes of wind weaved through each
corner, diminishing the impact of the relentless heat. The
stench of blood incensed the air, overpowering the scent of
delicious, brewing spices.
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Those Damned Lands
Chants of ‘Eid Mubarak’ coursed through the

neighborhood as the jovial men embraced one another
outside the local masjid.
Settled atop the colourful jingle truck, Hala watched

rickshaws and motorbikes passing by. The rickety wheels
of the bus groaned against the rugged road and horns
beeped through the street as the ginormous vehicle
attempted to pass through the traffic. Streets were dazzling
with lights, full of bustling crowd.
Lahore was as alive as ever.
As Hala and phupho returned from Eid prayer, they

entered home, phupho immediately entered the kitchen and
Hala was pulled inside phupho’s room by Sana.
Hala surveyed the room: Hajra was excitedly adorning

herself with makeup which she had secretly stolen from
phupho’s drawer whilst Sana stood against the door on the
lookout.
“Hala, quickly grab a lipstick too,” Hajra chimed,

slapping on some pink blush on her pale cheeks.
Perturbed, Hala reluctantly stepped towards the cupboard.

She scanned phupho’s worn-out items and grabbed a thin
red stick. As she pulled it out, something tangled along the
stick fell beside Hala’s feet. She lowered to the ground to
pick it up.
It was a coin pendant. The string was made of black
stretchable leather, its bail flashy gold and the dilapidated
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coin was of the color of moonlight. It seemed worn out, but

something about it was extremely endearing; it invoked her
to hold the accessory close to her heart.
“Ammi’s coming!” Sana shouted in trepidation. Hala

immediately shut the drawer, stuffing the pendant inside
the corner of her dupatta and knotting it tightly.
“Girls, get going-” Phupho interrupted herself with a

gasp. She stared at her daughters, glammed up in heavy
makeup and struck their heads.
“Remove,” she commanded. Her cruel tone didn’t leave

any room for further discussion, so they dispiritedly wiped
their dupatta on the lipstick.
Phupho turned away and her gaze fixated on Hala. She

inspected her, head to toe, and then narrowed her eyes.
There was something anomalous about the look on her face
which coerced Hala to hold her breath, counting down the
passing seconds.
“Your abu is back from work. Go greet him.” And off

phupho sauntered. Hala exhaled, walking towards the
living room.
Abu stood, one hand holding the bucket of meat. The

blooded equipment, used to sacrifice animals, laid against
his feet. Hala reminisced how initially everyone would
react egregiously upon discovering his profession. Her
father was a lean man with a tall stature which made him
appear soft and less masculine. Some neighbours even
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called him an embarrassment to Punjabi men. However,

when they witnessed him single-handedly tackle the
mightiest of beasts to the ground, they shut their mouth and
paid extra in retribution.
“Salam abu,” she muttered, stepping close and bowing

her head respectfully.
Abu responded in a low voice and patted her head. “Have

you had breakfast?” He rasped, skimming his eyes over
Hala.
Hala’s father was a man of few words. His stern

demeanour used to make Hala anxious, assuming her father
disliked her. Eventually, Hala concluded that her father was
just naturally austere and he showed care towards her with
trivial things such as asking her whether she had eaten.
“Yes, paaye were delicious,” Hala commented, smiling

up at her father.
“Praa (brother), I’ll be leaving. I’ve cooked dinner,”

phupho said, walking out of her room, dressed in her
burqa.
Phupho was leaving to her in-laws to spend Eid since her

husband was still unavailable, working at the coalfield.
They usually took Hala along but, last year, during their
visit, Ahad noticed the blatant disrespect from his cousins’,
towards Hala and proposed that she stay home.
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Ahad walked into the house, dressed in black shalwar

kameez, announcing that he had hailed a rickshaw. His
eyes met Hala and a charming smile uplifted his features.
“Allahafiz,” Hala waved at Hajra and Sana. Everyone left

out the door, including Hala’s father, to make sure they
boarded the rickshaw safely.
Ahad was about to leave but he paused. He turned to face

Hala and pulled out something from the pocket of his
kameez, handing it to her.
Before Hala could question it, Ahad had left through the
door. There was a scrunched-up newspaper in her grip. She
unwrapped the item.
A pair of glistening jalebi warmed her hand.
A few hours after phupho left, Abu had also gone to greet
some of his friends from Islamabad. Hala was bored out of
her mind as she washed some dirty dishes and cleaned up
the living room. She turned on the television but there was
only one channel airing with nothing interesting so she
switched it off.
She then thought back to the pendant. Curiously, she

untied the knot on her dupatta, grabbing the jewel. She
unhooked the pendant and tied it around her neck. As the
string was lengthy, the coin dangled against her chest.
She surveyed the coin, inspecting its origins. It was not a

normal rupee coin. The symbol was foreign, which led her
to believe it was perhaps from another country or an
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ancient treasure. Suddenly the coin’s faded colour bloomed

to life, the silver moonlight shining against her fingers. In
her grasp, the coin began to feel heavy, like a mountain and
she dropped it out of bafflement.
She felt cold, goosebumps awakening on her skin.

Muddleheaded, Hala wrapped an arm around herself. Her
surroundings turned hazy as if the world shifted out of its
axis. In consternation, she gripped the sofa, nails digging
inside. The room’s white light began to flick on and off.
Hala gasped.
Her senses were heightened, breath caught in her throat,

heart thundering against her chest in horror. The flickering
suddenly stopped and the bulb blew up, causing a shriek to
leave Hala’s mouth. She sat surrounded with eerie
darkness.
A chill wave cascaded down the back of her neck and she
screamed, lunging out of the sofa. There was a presence.
She could feel an existence beside hers.
Hala trembled, looking around hastily like a mad woman.

Her heart was palpitating so intensely, that she heard
nothing but the deafening beats of her shaking heart.
Then there was a distinct smell like burning charcoal. The

unpleasant odour diffused the air, its smoky scent burning
her oesophagus and suffocating her as she struggled for air,
coughing into her dupatta.
197
Her head started pounding. Lightheaded, she fell back

onto the sofa, her knees folding up to her chest as she
withered in horror.
Suddenly, a fiery light ignited the room.
Visible smoke drifted away from the lit splint, swimming

towards her and then circled around. Aghast, Hala laid limp
on the sofa, terror clasping her heart, making her body
immobile.
“Who?” A gravelling, manly voice echoed against the

walls of the house. Stupefied, Hala’s jaw dropped and a
deafening scream escaped her mouth. Heartbeat escalating,
her eyes grew wet as she began reciting verses from the
Quran to protect herself. Panting, she curled into the corner
of the sofa.
“W-Who is it?” She whispered. She intended on voicing

her question confidently but her voice was cracking.
Silence.
Hala put her feet down, sitting up. The lighted splint
stayed floating, its flare sparking to life as air passed
through. Was she hallucinating? How else was she
supposed to make sense of this uncanny encounter?
Gathering her strength, she stood to her quivering feet.
“Who dare summon Marghab?”
Hala dropped to her knees in terror. The bold
disapproving tone made her heart plummet, as if she was
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guilty and had committed a wrong beyond repair. The voice

had the power to awaken the dead and annihilate the alive.
“Ya Allah rehem!” She cried hysterically. Darkness
embedded her vision as she pled. The brewing fire and
smoke was afloat, seemingly mocking her.
“Respond or you’ll be damned,” the gruff voice warned

and immediately Hala rose from the ground. She searched
around for a glimpse of a mystical being but there was not a
shadow beside hers. If someone saw her, they’d assume
Hala was talking to herself like a madwoman.
“I- I am Hala. Don’t hurt me,” she pled, staring at the

burning fire as if it were the being conversing with her.
Hala watched the fire bloom, its smoke spreading
throughout the room. Pure darkness obstructed her vision
and she could only helplessly stare at the burning flare of
redness.
“Who, you say?” The voice hardened.
“Hala,” she whispered, her parched mouth unable to

voice out words.
The beaming redness morphed into nothingness. Then

sparked to life again. This time, the flames were darker,
bolder as if burning with passion; they spread out through
the room, cornering helpless Hala against the wall.
“Hala?” it questioned and the ground beneath her feet

shook. The lit fire began to sway. Hala’s mouth parted as
she noticed the fire slowly drifting towards her. Alerted,
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Hala quickly gathered herself and raced towards where she

assumed was the door to the living room. She noticed the
fire darting behind her and screamed, pushing at the door.
It didn’t budge.
Hala screamed, thrashing against the door. She couldn’t

remember closing it but currently all the occurrences were
something close to impossible, so a locked door was the
least of her problems.
“Let me out!” She wailed, her palms aching as she

recurrently slammed into the door.
She cried and screamed, knocked herself into the door

countless times. It was of no use. Exhaustedly, she fell limp
against the door. Through susceptive gaze, she noticed that
the ignited fire was flying close to her but didn’t try hurting
her.
Hala surveyed it with narrowed eyes.
Suddenly, the flame morphed into a fiery ring and

approached Hala. She withheld her breath as the ring
gravitated to her face. Surprisingly, the fire didn’t emit any
heat which led Hala to believe, it wasn’t really fire, but a
strange, mystical light.
The ring travelled down to her mouth, neckline and

stopped against her chest. Hala stared below. The ring of
‘fire’ was closing up on the coin of the pendant. It circled
the coin until a spark was produced and the pendant glinted
profoundly.
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“Hala-bint-e-Zarmina?” The voice returned but this time

Hala didn’t flinch.
The ground began to shake again. Hala gasped, holding
onto the door handle, her palms burning with the intensity
of her hold. It felt like the ground would collapse before
consuming her presence.
Hala’s lips parted. Realizing the words uttered, she

looked up, baffled. The grip on the door handle loosened
and she fell against the staggering floor.
“H-How do you know about ammi?” Hala whispered,

bewildered. The ground stabilized.
“Zarmina was the previous owner of this pendant.”
She grasped the pendant lying against her chest in shock.
“Your mother was a special human. She had the ability to

converse with the unseen world,” the voice, claimed. “It
was she, the only human to have seen me for myself.” His
voice lowered into a whisper.
“What do you mean?” Hala questioned, her head hurting

with the newfound information. She had many raging
questions, but her numbing tongue refused to function.
The fire sparked raucously and the heat diffused broadly,

its furious flames burning an angry red. “I am Marghab, the
jinn of desires.” Hala’s heart trembled.
Hala’s calm demeanour faltered as she heard the voice
confess its identity. She felt the trembling of her heart and
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trickling of cold sweat down her forehead. Phupho always

warned her to not go out after the maghreb athaan or else
some jinn would stick to her and haunt her to death.
She should’ve listened.
“I, Marghab, am the visage of every desire man holds.

Some see me as dimes and jewels; some yearn the departed
souls; some are desperate for their youth; some sickly see
their healthy past and some crave the sight of their lovers.”
Stupefied, Hala tried making sense of the jinn’s words.
“Zarmina saw me. Unlike humans with sickened hearts

chasing their desires, she saw the true Marghab.” Hala was
spellbound, heart racing. “The pendant, in your possession,
is the mystical coin, connecting your mother to my
presence.”
Hala’s mind went blank.
“She saw me— until one day,” the jinn’s voice faltered
and the room’s temperature seemed to decrease and Hala
quivered.
“What happened?” She breathed, wondering what her

mother had desired.
“Your father,” the voice confessed. “One day, she wore

the pendant and saw nothing except your father,” he
declared.
Hala pondered upon the confession. Did her mother really
desire nothing before meeting abu? If that was true, then
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Hala’s existence really did snatch her away from the only
desire she ever had. Hala’s heart flowed with anguish as
she withheld hot tears.
“Now, what does Zarmina’s precious child hide within

her chest?”
Suddenly the fire combusted and tremendous smoke

flooded the room. Hala coughed into her palm and shifted
uncomfortably.
Light illuminated the room. This time, it did not belong to

a fire, but the source was a radiating being. The blinding
light struck her vision and forced her eyes shut. She
struggled to catch a glimpse, her head aching and eyes
narrowing due to the intensity.
“Look and you shall see, what is desired in the depth of

your heart’s sea,” the command was her undoing, forcing
her eyes open.
Her mouth dropped.
Her pupils shook.
Her heart stopped.
She couldn’t believe her eyes. The one standing before

her had the same stunning blue eyes and charming smile.
Relieved, she felt herself jerk forward to touch him.
“Ahad!” She gasped.
Had Ahad come to her rescue?
203
“Ahad, you say.” The image was of Ahad. The voice was
of the jinn. Hala halted.
“Who is that, you see?” The voice mocked.
This was not Ahad.
Hala’s heart plummeted as she fell against the door, her

body shaking with terror.
“Why?” Her voice trembled. “Why do you look—like

Ahad?” She stuttered, muddleheaded and disturbed.
She hated that the jinn could play mind games and
manipulate her. She remembered reading somewhere that
humans were the smartest beings created on earth: it
seemed like a lie because currently she felt unbearably
weak and embarrassed. It never struck her that the world of
the unseen was an existence as true as hers. Human were so
egocentric; their minds refused to comprehend that this
earth was home to other mysterious species.
Because what you can’t see, won’t hurt you.
“Ahad, is he your lover?” The voice boldly interrogated

and Hala immediately shook her head in disagreement.
“No! He’s just Ahad—my cousin,” she mumbled, staring

at the glowing mirage. Ahad had the same black hair and
small eyes.
“Cousin!” Then there was laughter. Loud, affable

laughter which left her stupefied. His voice shook. “Cousin,
you say,” he ridiculed.
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Aggravated, Hala scowled with apprehension. “Yes!

Appear as you are before me!” She yelled, fearlessly. The
moment she had seen the glint of fire morph into Ahad, her
horror had dissipated. Something about his appearance
made her heart calm with relief. Even if he wasn’t present,
his image was enough for her.
“I appear before you as the most innate desire your heart

possesses.” Hala stared.
Hala’s heart began to shake.
Some crave the sight of their lovers.
Why did she see Ahad?
Ahad was just her cousin. Ahad was just her phupho’s
son. He was just someone who smiled the warmest when he
met her eyes. He was someone who made her feel more
alive. He was the one she bickered with about romance
novels. He was just someone she wished to see every day,
all the time.
“It’s not true!” She wailed, her chest tightening in

discomfort.
“You deceive your heart.”
She was reminded of the time Ahad asked her about

love.
She spited love that snatched her mother away, coerced

Ranjha to devour the sweet bite of no return, shattered
Qais’s soul and turned him into a mindless ‘Majnu’, tore
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Sahiba’s heart into two pieces, one lying with her

bloodthirsty brothers and the other in Mirza’s blooded
arms. She despised such love.
“You are just like your mother,” Marghab stated. His

voice was soft as if he was reminiscing the past. “The day
she saw your father within my shadows, she claimed it was
an error. Zarmina never desired anything before meeting
him and when she married him, her desire changed to you,”
Marghab stated.
Tears marred her vision as she held onto the pendant.
“She died,” Hala gritted. “Loving us took her away. Ammi
regrets it,” Hala whispered, her throat burning as she tried
containing her inner turmoil.
“In her last days, she held you every night whilst your
father cried on her shoulder.” Hala’s chest ached and she
curled into herself.
“You know what she told me that night?” Hala looked
up.
“The last ten days spent with you were her happiest in
this lifetime.”
Hala’s heart staggered, sobs wreaking her frame. She

held onto her chest, imagining her mother’s face and felt
her heart inflate with overwhelming love.
“Love hurts. Yet, love is still the strongest desire humans

chase. Why?” Marghab’s voice grew heavy as Hala’s sobs
reverberated, grief pouring out like lava.
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“Love overwhelms pain and misery. Its presence makes

you fearless enough to cross borders, oceans, even
dimensions.” Hala looked up at the image of the
illuminating Ahad and she felt her heart bustle with
liveliness.
“Ahad is to you like Imran was to your mother. Embrace

your feelings before it’s too late.”
And the fire depleted. The room was back to its original
form, almost like she had dreamt the entire experience. The
pendant against her chest was lighter and the exploded light
bulb had restored. Everything felt the same except… the
smoky scent remained, confirming that she hadn’t dreamt
the entire outwardly experience.
Hala stayed on the floor, tears streaming down her

cheeks. Her heart paced as she stared at the empty space
where previously Ahad’s mirage existed.
She grasped the pendant tightly.
“Hala?”
She gasped, jerking up to her feet as her heart jolted up

her throat.
Hala inspected the man, staring at those ocean eyes, pink
lips. He wasn’t glowing. His skin was pale and feet were on
the ground.
“What’s wrong? Why’re you—” Hala dashed towards
him and threw herself into his embrace.
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He didn’t smell like smoke.

He wasn’t a mirage.
Marghab had vanished and the perplexed man,

protectively holding onto Hala’s trembling frame was none
other than Ahad, whom she had fallen irrevocably in love
with.
Hala recalled Marghab’s words. Love overwhelms pain
and misery. She wondered what Ahad would see within the
shadows of Marghab. Would he perhaps see glimpses of
her?
That night, Hala’s beating heart felt anew, like a boulder

had been lifted, giving leeway to the passionate flow of the
riveting sea. The blood flowing through her veins, heart
beating against her chest, warmth spreading through the
embrace, encompassed her soul and made her feel the most
alive.
208
A Beautiful Tragedy
by
Mahnoor Adnan
A Beautiful Tragedy
The distant commotion of people excitedly

congratulating one another could be heard from rooms
away. It was the year 1952, the country was amidst
political chaos as Pakistan’s two wings found it difficult
to cooperate politically, socially and financially. Naila
sat alone in her room in a heavily embroidered chiffon
lengha; it was the occasion any young girl would dream
of; her wedding, yet she couldn’t help but feel alone.
The world around her was a cruel place to live in as a
woman - which she had soon realized upon her father
forcefully marrying her off to a much older landowner
in a nearby city.
The cruel aftereffects of partition had left Naila and

her family devastated. During the life-changing train
ride from Bombay to Lahore, she had lost her younger
sibling on the way, whilst some family members had
thought to be decapitated or displaced as the family
moved to an unknown land, where they were promised
religious freedom. After 5 long-lasting years of her
grandmother mourning the losses they had witnessed,
Naila’s wedding seemed to be the one event that
brought the family back together in harmony.
However, it worried her regarding the upcoming
future, being married to a man she knew nothing
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about; someone she was expected to spend the rest of

her life with.
In actuality, Naila’s mind kept wandering off to her

faraway lover; whom she had to leave behind when the
British left the two nations in a mess. She had met Ali
when she was just 13 years old; they had made
countless memories together, from sharing kulfi
during the blisteringly hot summer of Bombay to
celebrating Eid ul Fitr together upon the sighting of
the Shawwal moon. Although years had passed, Naila
couldn’t help but feel as if she was betraying the love
she once shared with Ali - which had been brought to
an end abruptly, due to a feud that had nothing to do
with the two teenagers. Soon enough, she snapped out
of her distracting thoughts; her room was filled with
women of all ages congratulating her - their vibrant
dresses and cakey makeup caught her eye more than
the groom who could be seen in the living room trying
to catch a glimpse of her.
The following day arrived at last, after a night that

seemed to be neverending for Naila. She wore her
favourite silver jhumkas with a heavily embroidered
net suit; it was tradition for women to dress up for a
few days after their wedding as guests continuously
arrived to bless the newlyweds. It didn’t take long for
Naila to realise that she had married the wrong man;
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A Beautiful Tragedy
Armaghan was a beast when angry - throwing Naila

and his own family into inconvenience and discomfort
constantly. On the other hand, the sugary smell of
mithai filled the room as another unrecognisable
distant relative entered the living room and told Naila
how lucky she was to have married such a hardworking
man. Hundreds of unplanned thoughts filled Naila’s
mind as she heard constant compliments towards
Armaghan; a man who was a landowner by day and an
alcoholic by night. She had realised this soon enough
when the pungent smell of vodka drenched their room
the night before. If anything, this involuntary marriage
had shown her everything she dreaded in a man.
As she returned to her room after hours of

conversing with aunties, she found scattered letters all
over the floorboards; addressed to Armaghan from an
unknown woman, written in deep blue ink. They were
addressed from Karachi; the capital port city, miles
away from Lahore - Naila wondered how she knew
Armaghan, who was barely ever out of town. It was
only the second day of their marriage and it seemed to
be failing already, which would prove to be a scandal
for women to discuss at dinner parties soon enough.
As little as she cared about his affair, she felt obliged

to ask him about it, yet as soon as his footsteps could
be heard approaching the room heavily, Naila
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Those Damned Lands
forcefully decided to forget what she had just seen. She

opened her jewellery drawer and emptied the velvet
pouch; the bangles belonging to her ancestors fell out
along with various nails. Naila was clueless about the
origins of the nails – as much as it scared her, she
chose to stay silent about the letters as well as the
nails.
After a few days, Naila continuously found such nails

in abnormal places: whether it be her suitcase or the
dinner sets she had brought with her as a part of her
extensive dowry. Along with these strange findings, she
seemed to get sicker day after day - to the point where
she couldn’t leave her bed. The women of the
household surrounded her and assumed the usual
khushkhabri expected from women as soon as they get
married - they seemed to act oblivious to the lack of
love between the couple but didn’t care about such
matters, or the prominent one which was Armaghan
and his impertinent personality. As the women hugged
each other and called out to one another to bring
mithai again, Naila knew that she wasn’t pregnant and
that something was wrong with her; the noor on her
face was gone, while her greasy hair and the dark
circles under her eyes made her seem far from a
newlywed bride.
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A Beautiful Tragedy
Dr. Chaudhry, the local doctor who was known for

his extensive knowledge of ailing patients, came to
visit Naila to examine her condition - yet the suspicion
of her being pregnant soon vanished when he
suspected that black magic had been cast upon her.
The country was one of many where such evil acts
occurred underground; jealousy, anger, envy - many
factors caused such occurrences, with the motives to
destroy families, break apart couples or prevent them
from having kids. The aunties who once gleamed in joy
were now shocked; who was bitter enough towards the
couple to carry out such an act?
The chilly October nights were packed with visits to

the nearby masjid, where the Molvi Saab gave duaas
for Naila to revise daily. As the weather became cooler,
her condition improved gradually; while Armaghan
seemed to become growingly grudging towards Naila -
the only time he seemed to be smiling throughout the
day was late at night - when he used to write numerous
letters back to his unknown lover under the glow of
the candles in their room, as he listened to Khwaja
Nazmuddin’s weekly speech on the radio, with the
occasional spitting noises of radio static. Whenever she
inquired her husband about this, he exploded into a
burst of rage and stormed out of the room instantly,
only to return hours later, smelling of vodka again.
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Those Damned Lands
The very next day, Naila travelled back to her house

on a beautifully painted rickshaw which was
intertwined with paint streaks of deep maroon and
leafy green flowers, surrounded by cliche quotes in
Urdu. After passing by the busy streets of Lahore filled
with other rickshaws and noisy motorbikes, she
reached her village.
She was greeted by her sister-in-law who was putting

up the washing; Naila’s brother had been martyred in
the first Indo-Pakistani war soon after partition, yet his
memories remained with the family. After the incident,
Naila’s bhabi had moved in with her parents and they
all lived together in a single-story, brick-walled
mudhouse, identical to the ones surrounding it.
Upon relishing fresh paratha with steaming chai,

Naila told them about the eye-opening events of the
past few weeks. Armaghan’s behaviour, drunken habits
and hostility left the women shocked. Upon hearing
Naila’s recount, her mother and bhabi were appalled
and immediately told her to stay back for a few days.
Naila’s parents' rural village was a drastically

different world as compared to the one she had
adapted to, upon being married to Armaghan. They
enjoyed a few lively days together: sleeping on charpais
while admiring the scattered stars above: shining like
moondust in the sky or drinking refreshing lassi whilst
215
A Beautiful Tragedy
visiting the market every day and shopping for

patterned shawls to prepare for the upcoming chilly
winter months. However, Naila couldn’t help but
notice a young man in jet black shalwar kameez
constantly glancing at her.
Men staring was a common occurrence for Pakistani

women when they stepped out into common
marketplaces - yet this one seemed oddly familiar to
Naila. She told her mom and bhabi to wait in the car
and gathered the courage to confront him on the final
day of her visit. As soon as she had uttered a few words
filled with rage, the words came out of his mouth
swiftly enough;
“Mein Ali hoon…”
*****
Naila stared at him in disbelief for a few minutes

before returning to reality, then it hit her. The person
she had grown up with. Ali. The little boy she had
known now stood before her, handsome as ever; his
sharp gaze had not changed a bit. After half a decade,
all hope of the pair reuniting had been lost until this
very moment.
216
Those Damned Lands
Ali explained his situation thoroughly; how he and

his family fled India as soon as their suspicions towards
Muslims increased - he had settled in the city of
Sialkot, where he worked as a factory manager and
spent a whole year trying to find Naila’s whereabouts.
He had been sent to Lahore to analyse the city’s
growing industry where he had spotted her in the
nearby small-scale markets - he had kept his doubts
about her identity till she had spoken to him that day.
After their lengthy catch-up, Naila exchanged

addresses with Ali and promised to visit him in Sialkot,
although she had no idea how she would get there -
the excuses she would have to come up with to leave
the city. That same night, as Armaghan wrote away to
his anonymous admirer, Naila hid in the drawing-room
while she wrote away to the man she truly loved
amidst the chaos they had witnessed over the brutal
years of partition. Ali was here, but the question
remained;
Who had cursed Naila?
Over the next few months, Ali and Naila remained in

contact constantly: reliving nostalgic childhood
memories, writing to one another secretly and
planning Naila’s confidential trip to Sialkot were just
some of the thoughts running through both their
minds. On the other hand, Naila’s in-laws seemed to
217
A Beautiful Tragedy
become increasingly aggressive towards her as she

failed to produce offspring for them. Naila suffered a
miscarriage in the span of the few months after which
she had met Ali. Herself, she had never wanted any
children, especially with a man like Armaghan, but
cultural and societal norms compelled her to ruin her
health. Her mother-in-law had frequently mentioned
her strict expectations towards Naila; how she was
expected to produce male offspring or else her
marriage would be at risk. Naila didn’t take this threat
seriously enough till what happened soon after.
On Eid morning, the most awaited Islamic event

throughout the year, forceful banging could be heard
from the gate as someone continuously slammed it.
Upon approaching it, Naila spotted a pale, attractive
woman who inquired her about Armaghan and his
mother’s whereabouts. Before Naila could begin to
respond, Armaghan’s mother hugged the woman and
led her inside the house, into the drawing-room where
Armaghan suddenly gleamed upon seeing her. Naila
had never seen him beaming like this ever before. It
didn’t take Naila soon to realise who the mysterious
woman was. It was the woman Armaghan had an affair
with.
They talked for hours on end; Naila’s curiosity kept

up with glimpses of their conversations as she passed
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Those Damned Lands
by. Soon enough, the situation she was caught up in

became clear enough to her. She had been cursed by
Armaghan and Faiza - which she had discovered to be
the vile woman’s name. Their constant questioning of
one another about Naila’s condition made her realise
this. However, as soon as she ran to Armaghan’s
mother and told her, she did not seem concerned at
all. She quietly told Naila that Faiza belonged to a
wealthier, well-respected family and was the last hope
for her to become a Dadi, as Naila could not bear a
child anytime soon - much to her in-laws' dismay.
After Asr prayer in the evening, Armaghan’s mother

hastily decided that she would be remarrying him to
Faiza. The arrangements had been made quickly and
the Molvi Saab was to be arriving any time soon. To
her surprise, Naila observed that not a single person
from Armaghan’s egotistic family had any reservations
about the new couple or how he was already married,
yet still happily chose to remarry; without any concern
for Naila’s feelings.
As the words “qabool hai” were blissfully being

uttered on one side of the house, Naila lay helpless on
the other side. Upon hearing the news of their sudden
nikkah, she had run off to the house’s backyard, laid
down on the delicately woven charpai and cried her
heart out until it felt almost suffocating. Her tear-
219
A Beautiful Tragedy
stained face would surely be questioned by everyone;

she ran to her room, locked the door and packed her
belongings. She had tried fixing her marriage in every
way possible; yet was still left for a woman just because
of Armaghan’s affair and his mother’s desire for a
grandson.
Although she had never truly loved, let alone liked

Armaghan - him leaving her for Faiza - along with
them cursing her together, felt like the bitter taste of
betrayal to her. Betraying the nikkah contract
Armaghan had signed only a year ago. Betraying the
lost child that had returned to God Almighty before it
even entered this worldly life. Most importantly,
betraying the woman who had left her whole life
behind unwillingly; for a man who in turn, had cursed
and easily replaced her without any explanation
whatsoever.
A developing city in the heart of Pakistan was also

the source of gossip for many glammed aunties,
looking for any scandalous news about whoever they
could think of. Over the next few days, rumours of
Armaghan’s second wedding had slowly begun to
spread; neither confirmed nor denied by the family,
had they remained open to interpretation.
Besides, Naila had left his house and returned to her

own modest home as soon as she could; whilst passing
220
Those Damned Lands
by the colorful fruit stalls and the continuous flow of

bikes nearby, all she could think of was her future
ahead as the strong smell of nihari and kebabs
engulfed her. Her written communication to Ali
continued back and forth, sometimes forcefully
delayed when heavy winter rainfalls delayed the post-
service. He recommended she file for khula in the
courts; however, in a strictly conservative society like
Pakistan’s: a woman filing for khula was someone the
whole town would be wary of forever.
Regardless of the consequences, she filed for it

anyway whilst desperately trying to avoid her mother’s
constant wailing after what had unfolded before their
family. Her father constantly convinced her to return
to Armaghan’s house, as it would preserve her delicate
izzat and their family’s reputation in the community.
Naila thought of these thoughts as pointless; she had
married Armaghan in the first place to satisfy her
family’s wants. She had gone through hell just to hear
them say she should return to the place that had
destroyed her to the core.
Instead, Naila had secretly planned on continuing

her higher studies while pursuing Ali as a potential
suitor if she wished to remarry. Becoming a teacher
had always been her dream profession, yet at the
delicate age of 18, her involuntary wedding had gotten
221
A Beautiful Tragedy
in the way of her dreams; just as it does for many

women across the subcontinent, who have been
accustomed to the patriarchal system surrounding
them along with its traditions.
The morning afterwards, she sipped on her warm

chai while reading the latest edition of the Pakistan
Times with a picture of Bogra on the front page: the
new prime minister of the young country due to the
previous one’s dismissal after the rising opposition. As
she put aside the newspaper, the tender feeling of
loneliness had yet once again taken over her and soon
enough, she realised; it was time for her to pay a visit
to Ali.
Although Naila’s parents disapproved of their soon-

to-be-divorced daughter travelling on a train alone to
meet an old friend, they were compelled into letting
her go after observing her state. They figured how
devastated she truly was at times such as when Naila’s
father used to light a candle and carry it around the
house to make sure everyone was sound asleep, yet
whenever he approached her room, the faint noise of
sniffles could be heard from the other side of the beige
wooden door. Or when her mother used to glance at
her from across the kitchen - as the scents of warm
cinnamon and pungent garlic surrounded them - just
to see her staring at a wall continuously until she
222
Those Damned Lands
snapped out of it upon hearing the chickens clucking

nearby as they roamed around the front side of the
house.
*****
The lengthy train ride to Sialkot had been about four

hours long and Naila spent every second of it thinking
about Ali and the way fate had reunited the pair
together. From two carefree, reckless teenagers who
shared a special friendship to adults who had faced
enough tragedies in their lives to have learnt a
substantial amount of lessons. The smell of crisp
samosas infused the train cabin as the conductor
passed by, handing everyone a snack each until they
reached the city. Naila ate the flavorful aloo-filled
pastry and soon fell asleep till the sounds of a bell
ringing filled her compartment. She had reached Ali’s
city.
Sialkot was a packed city, surrounded by an

abundant amount of villages. People could be heard
conversing in thick Punjabi accents nearby; middle-
aged uncles discussing politics whilst making small
talk about the weather or aunties gossiping about
weddings of other people’s children were discussed at
every corner of the city, just as they were throughout
the nation. Naila had decided to meet Ali at a dhabba:
which was not the most convenient setting for a young
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A Beautiful Tragedy
woman travelling in a new city alone, though it was

also one where Ali’s strictly religious family was least
likely to visit on a brisk afternoon on Wednesday.
Naila explained her complex situation thoroughly to

Ali, making sure she left none of it behind. The
glistening sunlight projected on his hazel eyes,
showcasing the flecks of green and brown that he had
inherited from his mother. The same very eyes
reminded Naila of her gazing at them longingly before
she left Ali for Pakistan and got onto the last departing
train from Bombay. It felt unreal that years had passed,
yet her heart yearned for the same gleaming eyes
before her.
Together, they had shared a plate of steaming

biryani, infested with the tanging scents of elaichi and
garam masala, the hues of pale orange and crimson
submerged the sky as the sun set behind the colony of
mudhouses and the luminous moon emerged from the
opposite side, beaming in its glory. After they had
finished the flavour-filled rice, Ali mentioned to Naila
that he wished to spend the rest of his life with her
after her khula was approved by the court; he told her
about how she would then be free to continue her
studies and go on to becoming a primary school
teacher, just like she had always dreamed of doing.
Upon listening to his proposal and the privileges it
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Those Damned Lands
came with she gazed at his eyes and hesitantly,

accepted the proposal, with no idea what she would be
telling her family; that her trip to Sialkot had turned
into more than it ought to be?
Two days later, she returned to Lahore and took her

bhabi into confidence; who reluctantly agreed to
support her plans of remarrying. Shockingly enough,
Naila’s parents weren’t surprised when they heard the
news. They realised how much she longed for Ali and
his love when they saw drafts of her letters scattered
around her room when she was with him in Sialkot -
hence they agreed to let her marry him; they had made
the mistake of enforcing their opinion on her once,
never again would they do so.
The khula had been approved a few days later; she

gladly returned all the gifts and jewellery Armaghan’s
family had been compelled to give her. Soon after,
Naila and Ali’s families exchanged their thoughts on
their children’s marriage and the dates for the wedding
were finalised. Although Ali’s family disliked the fact
Naila was previously married, they decided fate had
made them meet once again, and said they wouldn’t
wish to go against God’s will.
Amidst the humid monsoon nights and the

scandalous words exchanged by distant relatives of the
pair, the words “qabool hai” were uttered by Naila once
225
A Beautiful Tragedy
again. The only difference was that this time, it was Ali
with whom she was promising to spend the rest of her
life. To most people, it would remind them of the
tortuous marriage they had just let go of, however,
Naila thought of it as a new beginning with the man
she had rebelled against society for. The man she grew
up with.
Naila went on to major in English literature at a local

university in Sialkot and pursue her career in teaching.
Although her womb had betrayed her before, the kids
surrounding her throughout the day felt like her own
kids; the sight of them squealing in joy when
they played with one another or sharing their food
when one had forgotten their own never failed to put a
smile on her face. Ali had landed a promotion and was
now managing a department in the same company he
worked for when he first moved to Pakistan.
Everything had worked out.
*****
Over six decades later, Naila reclined on her intricately

designed rocking chair and reminisced about
everything she had left behind. Ali had passed away a
few years before; although Naila would never truly get
over his death, she had learnt to cherish the memories
226
Those Damned Lands
they had made together. From plucking freshly ripened

khubanis in Swat to picking out seashells of different
kinds from the beaches of Karachi, they had travelled
not only Pakistan but the whole globe together. They
explored the deep gorges of the Grand Canyon in
Arizona, tried savoury shrimp soup in Thailand and
backpacked around Europe over the years. Sometimes,
they would dwell on the past by recalling memories of
their childhood in Bombay or their reunion in the
bustling streets of Lahore.
Naila was now a retired principal of a prestigious

school in the heart of Lahore while developing a
profound liking for social work: helping the numerous
less fortunate ones around her. Her bhabi had acted as
her biological sister throughout every turn Naila’s life
took and they now happily lived together in a double-
story, spacious house.
As her life changed continuously, so did the world

around her. She now had a smartphone to message
whoever she willed with: the old days of intimate letter
writing were soon forgotten by the modern world.
Looking back at her childhood home in Bombay now,
it felt like a dream. On her portable phone screen, she
saw that the once muddy streets were now well
developed, the houses had turned from small shacks to
227
A Beautiful Tragedy
large apartment buildings and the population

increased along with the size of the buildings.
Naila’s story became a source of inspiration for

countless young women around the country. We see
many Nailas in our everyday lives: innumerable young
girls facing the same obstacles that she did. Toxic
relationships, black magic and forced marriages were
just some of the mishaps faced by Naila at a young age,
regardless, she had become a symbol of women
empowerment for those around her; encouraging
others to speak up without caring about what others
would have to say. The path she paved had not been
easy for her to go through: nights of sobbing,
contemplating and weeping; yet she stood before it all.
The inspiring woman she had grown into.
228

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THOSE DAMNED LANDS

DAASTAN AND FOLKORISTAN

Copyright 2022 Daastan

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or distributed

All rights reserved

Compilation: Rida Ashraf

Editor: Mariam Rizvi

Formatting: Mariam Rizvi

Book cover Design: Komal Salman

Illustrator: Mariyam Ali Khokhar

First Edition 2022

Daastan Printing Solutions

Daastan Publishers, Pakistan

The Queen Blossom................................................................. 1

She quietly closed the door of his bedchamber and passed

It was terribly annoying to get out of a warm bed and

If it was up to her, she would have given everything to

Thinking of his handsome face and the way his gaze

“Nadira!” she heard a whisper from somewhere close by

The inner courtyard of the Khwabgah was bathed in post-

She walked briskly towards Mir Ali, wondering about his

“What am I doing? The question is, what are you doing

“My life isn’t much anyway without Prince Salim’s love.

“And that’s where you’re wrong. The Padishah is

“Grip…! You think that this is some tactic to keep the

“Mir Bhai, if Allah can fill the heart of the Prince of

“Foolish girl! You’re blinded by all his attention, but I

“Now go to your quarters and pray that nothing drastic

exasperation, grabbed Anarkali’s arm and pushed her in the

Someone shook her, “Anarkali” she heard a female voice,

Anarkali opened her eyes and saw a blurred figure,

“Anarkali, palace guards are here, and they want to take

Anarkali sat up in bed, her mind still in a stupor. The

Her first thought was, “Salim always sent for me through

With a sense of foreboding gnawing at her, she picked up

behind the lattice windows. Some had a look of curiosity,

With a mere “Come with us,” they started walking, not in

She had to walk at a quicker pace to match that of the

She walked slowly towards the Qadi’s room and entered

Upon Anarkali’s salam, the Qadi looked up, “You’ve

“Crime! What crime, huzur? I did not do anything.

“By the orders of the Zil-e-Ilahi, Shehnshah-e Hindustan,

Anarkali could not hear anything after that. Taking shaky

“Huzur-e-wala, do not do this to me. This is cruelty!” she

Her knees gave in, and she collapsed on the floor,

She screamed and wailed in the hope that the Prince

Her head was throbbing as Anarkali tried to open her eyes.

Anarkali attempted to move, but the rope cutting at her

Clear daylight pierced through her closed eyelids and

After taking stock of her surroundings and not being able

The man stopped his horse immediately, looked back,

“You’re up, I see. Mohtarma, don’t you remember? My

given Anarkali such a shock that it momentarily erased

After the prison guards laid the last brick, Anarkali

Born to a tawaif and an unknown father, Nadira was

other’s company, and so began a beautiful relationship. He

It was when the Prince suggested that they should marry

hand, concubines remained concubines no matter whom

Anarkali tried to talk Prince Salim out of this notion, but

Her train of thought came to a sudden halt when Anarkali

still not clear to Anarkali, but she remembered exiting the

She now recalled Mir Ali saying. “Nadira, go with this

All that recollection brought with it a sudden feeling of

She was trying to start a fire in the stove, fanning and