Sikander, Don't Die

chapter two: purple shawl

Dusk had fallen over the crying kingdom. And with it, the preparations of the celebration were in full rage.

The palace, which once was hers, was of her family's, now felt so foreign. Walking through the corridors, the noxious smell of blood wafted to Roshanak's sensitive nose. Even after the floor and the walls being scrubbed vigorously, the malodour remained. One could do everything to remove the sins of conquest, but wounds once inflicted refused to go away. Scars were eternal.

Instead of the soldiers of her father, she saw the foreigners stand guard outside each room. Her father was with the other king, the one who would be called a victor by history. If one would have asked her or her people, they wouldn't have titled him as a liberator freeing the land from the arid rule of an impotent ruler, but as a man of high lust and greed who satiated his ambitious thirst through unnecessary bloodshed. Melissa had been allowed to meet her husband once, but couldn't stay for long as she had to prepare the girls for a dance.

Melissa, despite the warning from Omkara, had decided to put Roshanak in the centre of the dance performance, with all light on her. The princess protested slightly, only to be put off by her mother. It wasn't dance that made her mood grim but the fact that she was to be seen as someone lower to her true status.

Alas, she wasn't an independent princess anymore. She was the woman of a conquered land, ultimately the property of some king. Even if she was the same to her father, her clan, the sense of being owned by someone unknown felt frightening. Her family would think thrice before pushing her towards danger.

This king won't. This king might kill me any day. This king might end my family if Baba stands up for his rights. The men were, after all, taught to die in war, and the women were spoonfed rituals of the bed and the holy task of becoming a martyr through childbirth.

The enemy soldiers somewhat knew who she was. They whispered when she passed by them. Probably the Hazarahpatish Hridayank had informed them of her heritage, that she was the daughter of Omkara and was to be treated with dignity. However, Roshanak found their glances merely curious and judgmental, often throwing a lecherous look at her body. She wasn't round and well-formed like her mother. Roshanak boasted a petite figure, reminiscent of spring, the youthful fountain of an opened gift. One day, she would be full like her mother.

Sometimes she dreaded it.

She reached the garden. No one was positioned in there. Maybe the new king's men found joy in the luxurious corners of the palace than in the lap of nature. Roshanak loved the flowers, although now trampled, and sniffed the wet soil, unfortunately spoilt by blood. She sat on a rock, watching the sunset. It drenched the sky in crimson, bleeding into the clouds and the horizon. Tears welled up in Roshanak's eyes. Her jittery fingers tried to clasp on some invisible support while she rocked back and forth, wailing till all her tears dried up.

She was not a free woman any more. She was imprisoned.

"Why do you cry?"

Roshanak had not heard the voice before. It was fathomless like the cliff and brimming with strength. Though rough and untamed, it was well under the control of the speaker.

She turned towards her left to see a man, his skin glowing in twilight. He was dressed in a tight skirt and a purple shawl was over his shoulder. A scar, red and jagged, ran down his chest. He was a blond, with spots of earthy brown here and there. Even if his voice was manly enough, his face was very young. Despite the frown of his thick brows, the twinkling eyes made him appear boyish.

"Nothing." She concluded this was a man from the other side. She couldn't tell him about her sorrow. Although, she must have bewildered him by her frantic sobs. He wouldn't have expected to meet a stranger so distraught during a twilight stroll.