In the City of Gold and Silver Read Free Page B

chosen,” whispered Muhammadi, kissing her friend’s tears away.
    â€œDon’t be silly, I know you will captivate the king. You are so beautiful! You will reach great heights. I can feel it . . . Promise that you’ll ask me to join you. Among all those courtesans, you will need a loyal friend, and I . . . I only have you.”
    Muhammadi had sworn she would, and exhausted, they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms.
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    The next day, the day I arrived at the palace . . . eleven years ago . . . it seems like yesterday . . .
    Hazrat Mahal remembers how frightened she had been when she was taken into the main zenana hall along with her two companions. There were about a hundred women belonging to the Court dressed like princesses, who stared at the girls, laughing and making comments she guessed were unkind.
    She stood waiting with her eyes lowered as the agitation and laughter escalated around her, all the while feeling her anger rising. She had never tolerated being humiliated; no matter if people deemed her awkward and said she would never find a husband. That was how her father had brought her up: “We are poor, but we are from an old family, never forget this, and under any circumstances always keep your dignity, whatever the cost. Know that the worst thing in the world is to lose your self-respect.” Her beloved father . . . she missed him so much, she wished she was far away from here, this palace, these women, whom she already detested.
    â€œSilence, ladies! Do you not realise you are terrifying these young girls?”
    The voice was melodious but the tone severe. Muhammadi looked up in surprise. A handsome man stood before her smiling, wrapped in an embroidered cashmere shawl. Speechless, forgetful of all the usages and greetings she had gone over a hundred times, she stood there, gaping at him.
    Outraged, Amman and Imaman stepped forward and forced her to bend her neck.
    â€œForgive her, Your Highness, this girl is one of our most accomplished students. Your presence has made her lose her head!”
    The crown prince began to laugh. He was twenty-four years old, and although used to his success with women, he knew how clever they were at pretending to be in love. Nonetheless, this ravishing child delighted him. She was so troubled, so awkward and clearly not feigning her admiration, that he felt flattered. However, he quickly collected himself and addressed the matrons:
    â€œYour protégées are charming, but let us see if they are talented. I have thought up a new play for Lord Krishna’s birthday, and I need dancers who are not only beautiful, but who possess a real sense of rhythm. There is no room for mediocrity in
kathak
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    He clapped his hands and immediately a small group of women sitting on a low stage began to play.
    As if in a dream, Muhammadi watched as Sakina and Yasmine moved onto the floor and began to dance gracefully to music alternately sensual and merry. She would have liked to join them, but her legs were leaden, and she remained glued to the spot while the rumble of indignant murmurs rose around her.
    Brusquely, the prince motioned to the orchestra to stop, and said in an irate tone:
    â€œDid you not hear? I asked you to dance!”
    Her eyes full of tears, Muhammadi lowered her gaze. She had been preparing for this moment for months, her life was being decided and now she had spoilt it all . . .
    â€œWhy are you not dancing?” asked the prince impatiently.
    â€œI am not a dancer!”
    Where had she found the courage to reply in this manner? Later, she often asked herself and ended up admitting that the most desperate situations pushed her to discover her strength, her truth. In that instant, she realised that although she had learnt to dance like all her companions, to her, it was just another activity; she had never seen herself as a . . . dancer. She had other dreams.
    As she