A Dust Storm in Delhi by Meena Arora Nayak tells the tale of what happens when in mid-thirteenth century the ruler of Delhi, Razia Sultan was taken captive by the rebel noble Ikhtiyaarudin Altunia.
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The sound of my cell’s door being pulled open brings me back to the present. I try to drag myself up to sit; instead, I almost collapse on my face. I must have fallen asleep, because I feel disoriented and my body has forgotten the synthesis with pain. I am so angry at myself for not remaining vigilant. And now I’ve also lost the element of surprise I wanted to use to jump Altunia.
I see a soldier enter the cell and replace the old, burnt out torch with a fresh one and leave. When Altunia comes in, I use the wall as leverage to raise myself up. Then I sit and watch him walk towards me. He’s wearing different clothes, and I realise that this is another day—perhaps two days have passed, or even three? Panic begins to curdle in my stomach.
Altunia comes and stands close to me, looking down at me. ‘What happened to your clothes?’ he asks. Then he reaches out a hand as if to touch the bandage on my belly. I recoil.
‘You should really let me send you my hakim to examine you. It looks like you’re pretty badly wounded, Razi.’
‘Go to hell.’
‘You were not supposed to get hurt.’
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‘You called me to battle, you bastard. What did you think would happen?’
‘They had instructions not to hurt you. I want to marry you,’ he says.
The seriousness of his tone surprises me so much, I begin to laugh. Has he really done all this just to get me to marry him? The fool. Does he actually think that after taking away my Sultanate and killing Yakut, I’ll agree to be his wife?
‘I’m serious, Razi. That’s the only way.’
‘I’d rather die than marry you. And what do you mean, “the only way”?’
He’s quiet for a moment. I look up at him, and I’m taken aback by an expression I have never seen on his face before. Even in the dim light, I can see an intensity, a righteous zeal. Then he begins speaking:
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‘The Ulema—the religious leaders and the Turki nobles—they’re all against you. You threatened their power. They were already bucking from taking orders from a woman. Then you go and remove your veil. And then, to make matters worse, you make a public display of lusting after a Habshi. What were you thinking, Razi?’
I stare at him in shock. What happened to him? This is not the Altunia I know. He’s talking like the most conservative of them. He’s never talked like that, or even had a thought like that. This Altunia is not the friend I’ve known for sixteen years—a friend who not only understood my imperatives but also supported them. And for him to talk about Yakut in this manner—a man he called his brother ... I want to smack this Altunia in the face.
He must have seen the intent in my eyes, because he raises his hand, as if to stall me. ‘I’m telling you what motivated them. Think what tarikh—history—would say about them serving a woman and a Habshi? They couldn’t conceive of it. I warned you about this when you became Sultan. You did it, Razi. You killed him. And they would have killed you too, if I hadn’t pulled you out of the battle.’
‘And what will tarikh say about you, Altunia? What will you be known as? Backstabber? Traitor? So, what did they offer you in exchange for killing a friend you loved like a brother and capturing the Sultan of Hind: the woman who made you, the woman you profess to love? I gave you Baran and then Tabarhind. That wasn’t enough for you? How much, you bastard? What did they promise you? Another iqta? Badaun? Lahore?’
‘I told you already. You won’t believe it, but I did it for you.’
‘Don’t you dare, Altunia! Don’t you dare say that!’
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‘Just think, Razi. How could they—those proud Turki men bound by traditions, and those scholars of Islam—how could they tolerate your free thinking? But, if you say yes to me, you’ll be liberated from their constraints. You’ll be free to do anything you want. Go without a veil, change laws in Tabarhind, meet people, sit with men and discuss philosophy and religion all day. I won’t stop you. And no one will dare say a word. You will be Malik Altunia’s wife—Malika Razziat.’
‘Malika?’ Contempt drips from my voice. ‘You have it all wrong, Altunia. I am Sultan. Sultan Razziat-Ud-Dunya Wa Ud-Din. Go tell your friends, Sultan-i-Hind Razziat still lives and her sword is thirsting for their blood.’
‘Don’t you get it, Razi? They’re too powerful. They’ll destroy you. But I can save you. Let me save you.’
‘Save me?’ I say derisively. ‘You bastard. I’m here in this dungeon because of you. Can you give me back my sultanate? Can you bring Yakut back?’
‘I told him to stay away from you. But that fool loved you too much. I warned him that he would be his own ruin. And yours.’
‘Let me see if I have this right,’ I chew out the words. ‘I’m a woman who has dared to become Sultan by public consensus. I have revealed my face in public so that my people can see me for who I am; I contaminated my Turki nobility by having a Habshi for a friend and a mentor. But I will be absolved of all this if I marry you?’
‘Yes,’ he says.
Excerpted with permission from ‘A Dust Storm in Delhi’ by Meena Arora Nayak, published by Tranquebar, a Westland Imprint.
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