"Why do you keep saying it's a prince?" Samra frowned.
Her hands that had been busy plucking the green grapes stilled in their action. With a frown she observed Fadahunsi's face. His usually calm eyes were shrouded in a cold look – steely to the point they cut through her bone.
"Because I know," he smiled.
"That doesn't make sense Fadahunsi". She poked her tongue at him.
"Humdum there is plenty in this world that does not make sense," he tapped her head.
"For instance?" She raised her brow — except it were a peculiar sight for she raised both at the same time, failing to only ever raise one.
"The sun rising. The tides changing each day. The infinite depth of my love for you," he kissed her cheek.
They had filled up with a delightful fluffiness over the past nine months. Her body had filled out, the lithe figure turned plump all because of the excessive food he kept feeding her. Throughout winter she had enjoyed Fadahunsi's entire attention. He only left to train in physical combat with his soldiers in the morning and then in the afternoon's he would spend time with his sister at the palace. All of them were still recovering from the way Faheel had betrayed them, and the affects showed.
Fadahunsi's chiseled face had turned even more slender. His cheeks sunk in, the dark eye-bags had found a permanent home on his otherwise clear skin. Faheel's intentions had been clear, the hot blooded male in him had failed to come to terms with the fact that his father would make his daughter a Queen. Originally he thought he would have more time to convince their father but the war had forced him to take the throne by force. He had been hung the next morning, treason his crime.
Samra knew that while she shivered with discomfort from the heaviness that pushed against the walls of her bladder, Fadahunsi too stayed awake — guilt filled his pores. He was suffering. He could not hate his brother even after his death, that was not how General of the Persian army was built. When he prayed and sunk his head, he asked for his brother's forgiveness, he shed tears for the loss that had made home in their lives. He could hide his pain from her but she sensed it from his actions.
"That doesn't make sense! What if it were a princess? What then?" She pinched his cheek.
"Then I'd turn into a poet," he smiled, imagining holding a small girl in his hands.
"Kyun? Dukhtar honay keh gham mein?" Tears filled her vision.
[Why? In the pain of having a daughter?]
"Us ki mohabbat mein," he kissed her eyes.
[In her love.]
Samra sobbed at that. Her heart turned tender at his words, they had the power to heal the wounds of her childhood. She had grown up, being told that one day, when God will resurrect them all, each body part would speak on it's own. She had never known, they would do so in this life too. Her eyes showed him that which she feared to show. Her lips murmured words that were unknown to her even. Her skin glowed and painted a picture of everything. Her small ears kissed his with their soft cries, and he answered every-time.
"It's going to be a prince, that I'm sure of," he kissed her hand.
Fadahunsi helped her lay in their bed. The pillows had been fluffed and the thick curtains drawn shut. March had arrived, the petals of spring just unfolding. Mornings were full of heavy fog, spilling into the tiny streets. Afternoons were bright, with the sun baking the bricks within matter of hours. And the evenings, oh the evenings were nothing short of perfection. The gentle blues that descended over the horizon with the natural hues of land spilling on to them painted a blank canvas for the emerald trees and clear rivers. Life was uncurling it's toes, gently grazing the edges, skimming before it tore into a full speed run.
"It's a matter of a few days now, we shall see who is right then". Samra rolled her eyes.
"Get ready to loose then," he grinned.
"Why is it that you are so adamant on having a son?" She frowned.
"A son will be my strength. I know daughter's can be strength's too. But I want to have a daughter only when I have son's strong enough to look after her. They will protect her from harm. They will cherish her like birds do to the first few hours of spring. A daughter will fill our life with colors only when our son's manage to erect a canvas too strong for her". He replied.
Samra nodded, her head resting on his shoulder. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of relief. Her muscles ached the spasms on her lower back and upper thighs had not stilled for a single second. Her feet were swollen beyond repair, they made each step full of agony. These last three days Fadahunsi had been forced to carry her around, she had lost all strength. Her breasts were sore to the point that anytime he used a rag cloth to help her wash she was left with nothing but whimpers. Her belly was covered in dark purple-blue marks, that the mid-wife explained were normal. Samra felt ugly at times and tears would spill out of her eyes, but Fadahunsi's soft words and kisses helped her put back the pieces of herself she had lost back together — one at a time.
"I'm scared of labour. I wish my parents could be here. I miss mama," Samra sniffed.
"I'm sorry humdum. I have the riches of the world and yet I am bound at the will of God. The floods have made it impossible for them to come on time, for that I apologize". He apologized.
He kissed the back of her hand repeatedly. His fingers brushed the silky locks of hair behind her ear. His thumb grazed her soft cheeks brushing the ends of her lower lip. He rested his forehead on top of hers. In the dimness of the room he could see nothing save for the wet stains on her cheek. Fadahunsi felt her remorse, the absence of your parents was a pain no amount of time could heal. He kissed her on the lips. Gently brushing them against hers, sucking on her lower lip. The kiss was full of sweetness and emotions, their tears masked each others. Her honeyed mouth and his strong one were miles apart and yet same in measure. They breathed deeply, their hearts racing so strongly that it was impossible.
" خدایا به این همسرم رحم کن زندگی و سلامتی را که برایم مقدر شده است به او هدیه کن."
He prayed in a hushed whisper.
[Oh Allah bless this wife of mine. Gift her my life and the health destined for me.]
⚜️⚜️⚜️
The agonizing pain tore through her body. She hunched over her stomach, welching over the chamber pot. Her water had broken a few hours ago, and since then she had known nothing but pain. Fadahunsi was stuck at court, with an envoy from England. A man had been dispatched to inform him of the labour, yet he was nowhere to be seen. The midwife sat her on a birthing pot, it was like a chamber pot, except it had a proper chair attached to the bucket that was meant to catch all the amniotic fluid. A woman was forced to sit on it until she crowned. And the pain was immense. Samra dug her nails into her thigh, tears covered her face, like a paper mosaic does to a window.
"Mistress should I bring you a rag cloth?" Zarwa fluttered around the room.
Samra felt her vision filling up with dark spots as she nodded her head. Biting on the cloth she could relive herself of a bit of pain. Her head was full of sweat and so was the rest of her body. It dripped down her body as the crowning became more prominent. She was shifted to the bed. Propped up on her shoulders, she grunted. Short, hasty breaths escaped her mouth as her maids and the mid-wife covered her with a cloth. The mid-wife's hands gently pried her uterus and abdomen, assisting the fetus out of the body. Her muscles were fatigued and as a sharp pain tore through her vagina, she cried one last time before feeling relived of all pressure.
As soon as she relaxed, Samra heard the wondrous shrill of a young baby's cry. Her own eyes filled up once more as she held her son to her chest, the loose gown had fallen off of her shoulder and revealed her warm skin. She peppered kisses over the child's stick face, not caring that the amniotic fluid still stuck to it.
"We need to clean him mistress, please hand him over". Zarwa smiled.
Samra nodded, feeling as if a part of her had been ripped away as they moved out of the room with the child. The doors were thrown open and her husband ran inside the room. He sat by her head, kissed her sweaty face and hands. He thanked her with small sobs escaping his own lips. He had caught a glimpse of his son, and that had blossomed a new found love inside his heart. Fadahunsi had never known a feeling so pure, so homely. That child would be his heart after it's mother he knew.
"You won, Fadahunsi. It's a son," Samra spoke.
"I won the day I married you," he kissed her sweaty brow.
"Your son, General Fadahunsi," the midwife handed him over.
He smiled in thanks and asked for privacy. Their son had inherited his olive tone skin but his curly hair and brown eyes reminded him of the woman he loved. He held the young babe's small fingers and kissed each of them, whilst Samra stared in simple awe. She brushed her son's hair and passed Fadahunsi a smile.
"We shall name him Hassan Zaeem Fadahunsi," she kissed his cheek.
"Has—san?" Fadahunsi was surprised.
"After the honorable man that your father was," she smiled.
"Thank you! Thank you so much Samra," he pecked her lips.
"No. Thank you Fadahunsi. For giving me my identity. Meri pehchan. Agar ap meri zindagi mein nahi aatay tou mein kabhi apnay aap sai wakif na hoti," she teared up.
[My identity. If you did not come into my life I would have never found myself.]
"And who is Samra?" He questioned, his hand brushing the soft hair on Hassan's head.
"She is Persia's heroine. Your wife, Hassan's mother. Akbar and Yumna's daughter. Yet most importantly Samra is a woman who writes crooked and spends her afternoon in the bright kitchens. She is not someone's tainted progeny, she is above everything just like everyone else human". Samra smiled.
"That is the Samra I love. The one that is humane. But you got one thing wrong," he whispered.
"And what is that?"
"You are Prince Hassan Zaeem Fadahunsi's mother. Persia's crown prince," he replied.
"What? How?" Samra was startled.
"Alishba announced it today. Even if she gets married, Hassan will inherit the Persian throne". He explained.
"Alishba is a generous woman, already she has spoiled her nephew so much," she smiled down at their son.
It was true, Alishba had defeated them in setting up a nursery for Hassan. She had sent over plenty of jewels for the little boy that was yet to be born. Queen Alishba had not left any stone unturned in spoiling the child. Her love warmed Samra's heart. Realization had filled her in these past few days, that there was more to life than their status and their life. The color of their skin was not a barrier for what they could achieve. Life was larger than this all, it was their small minds that found these constraints. Yet nature was greater, things had so many perspectives. And her identity was one of them.
اختاتام۔
[End]