Meri Pehchan

•the secret meeting•

Moments are gentle gifts of oblivion, a silent caress of the unknown a gentle bidding of love from something that is not yours. Moments come and go, in this life of little precious moments. Some stick, some fall and some leave you with pain to last a lifetime. They are not as large as the stories parents or grandparents tell their children. Moments in their full capacity are gentle seconds of nothing but the rainbow taking over. It makes the present brighter, the future mightier and the past a bit steadier. These are the few illustrations of what it means to be human at full capacity.

Such moments were not plenty in Samra's life. She could count them on her lithe hands, the amount of times she had been left too stunned to utter a single word. A bright, bold moment like this was a rarity and the one she remembered most importantly was not the silent engagement that had taken place or the gifts that were trickled into their home one at a time in the dead of the night. It was not the letter written with a fine tip, a charcoal ink, addressed to her from her husband to be — no. The fiery red moment, one that had enthralled her, pulled her hook line and sinker was the royal decree that allowed her to attend the writing classes with her cousins at the library in the women's quarters.

She had gotten up an hour before her usual time, making the long walk to the communal bath on her own. Excited was a word so small when it came to describing her emotions. There was a happiness so extraordinary bubbling inside her chest that for a moment at least, she could not believe her luck. Late into the night she had kept her feline awake, despite the many scratches it threw her way. Samra was beyond the perception of humanly possible emotions and pain was a thing of the past. She had changed into a thin blue cotton saree with bold gold embroidery on the edges of the drape. The bandeau styled top with its sweet heart neckline and sequins fitted her to the t and outlined the curves of her body. It was one of the newer dresses that had come along with the many other gifts from Fadahunsi.

"Kitni haseen lag rahi hai meri bachi," Yumna kissed her forehead.

[How beautiful does my daughter look.]

She smiled at that. Hugging her mother close, clenching the banarsi fabric of her dress in her palms. Billo mewled against their feet, baring her teeth at them for making constant noise.

"Aap par jo gayi hun," she grinned.

[Because I'm just like you.]

Yumna laughed along with her. Their voices creating a melody of their own, ignorant to the watchful gaze of servants that were not their own. A palace was of course home to schemes, of which their family had been the victim of for the longest period. Samra kissed her mother's cheek twice and stroked Billo's fur. Running out of the bungalow, marching towards the royal pavilion, oblivious to the man following behind her.

Out of place — was her first thought. Amongst the heavily dressed women and teachers that covered the expensive lounging chairs and chaise's, she stood out like a sore thumb. Her skin was darker than everyone else's, her identity a huge question mark. The instructor raised her head, the looking glass wrapped around her neck with white beads covered her round eyes and her ample figure all but burst out of the tight peshwas. The scrutiny of her gaze, the questions inside their eyes made Samra squirm her shoulders fell and the confident cheery attitude took a seat in the back of her head.

"Samra?" The woman spoke.

Her voice was louder than that of her father's when he laughed wholeheartedly. The tea stained teeth that were covered by the large bright pink rogue coated lips, fell into a smirk.

"I'm your teacher Sumeira. Have a seat and take out your takht and qalm," she pointed to the floor mats.

Samra nodded silently. In front of the status of the royal children, her status was that of a tiny bug. She could easily be squished under their feet, forgotten even as they enjoyed the sight of her bleeding. Wordlessly she tucked her legs under her body and sat on the thin mat, at the feet of her cousins, Yasmin and her half-sister's Saleeha and Safa. Yasmin was nothing like the two, her bright green eyes were traced back to their roots in the mountains up north, the fair skin, round breasts that sat prettily on her soft body and the height that towered above the rest of them. She was in truth the prettiest of princesses in their Kingdom and the King had plans of offering her hand to Fadahunsi.