Chapter — 1855
The air of 1855 carried with it both the scent of spring blossoms and the restlessness of a world changing too quickly. In the sprawling royal haveli, where painted arches stretched into courtyards flooded with late afternoon light, the youngest princess of the house sat quietly under the shade of a carved balcony.
Noor Jahan's presence did not need jewels to announce itself. Her beauty was a quiet sort of command: honey-colored eyes that caught sunlight like molten amber, sharply defined by the depth of her black brows. Her long, wavy black hair spilled down her back, refusing the discipline of pins and ornaments, while the strong elegance of her jawline made her look far too assured for her years. She was, by every measure, born to embody the refinement her title demanded—yet she never fully wore it the way others expected.
A thick Persian volume lay open in her lap, her slender fingers tracing the calligraphed words as though each letter was a private secret. Books were Noor's true companions. They made her world larger than the gilded walls of the palace; they gave her thoughts wings beyond silks and ceremonies. She often told her cousin Yasmeen Ali that books spoke to her in ways that people never did. Yasmeen, with her fiery red hair and laughter that filled courtyards, teased Noor endlessly: "One day, you will marry a library, and the poor man will only get to share you with ink and paper."
Noor would only smile, elegant yet stubborn, and turn back to her pages.
She hated balls and gatherings, those endless dawats where chandeliers dripped with crystal light and noblewomen traded glances sharper than their pearls. To her, such occasions were cages dressed in silk. She would slip away from them whenever she could, finding solace in the palace stables, the open fields, or the gardens where the wind was free of politics. Alone among the trees, she breathed without performance, her honey eyes softening as they traced the patterns of leaves, the flight of birds, the murmurs of the earth.
Her nature was full of contrasts. She was elegance itself in her posture and speech, yet her fury, when provoked, was nothing less than fire.Noor carried that rare kind of strength—a woman who could be gentle and gracious one moment, yet strike with a blade the next. For she was not only bookish; she was also trained in the arts of defense and dignity. Fencing, archery, and horse riding were skills she had honed since childhood, not as pastimes, but as a declaration: she was no ornament for a palace, she was a force in her own right.
Her father often scolded her for this streak. "Your reforms will change nothing, Meharbano," he would sigh, using her birth name. "The world does not move for a woman's words."
But Noor Jahan believed otherwise. Her reforming mind found sparks of justice in the verses she read, in the histories of forgotten queens and warriors. She carried their memory like armor. Her fury was not blind; it was sharp, principled, and fueled by the knowledge that her world could—must—be different.
That afternoon, as the fading sun painted the sky in molten gold, Yasmeen entered the balcony, her red hair gleaming against the dim arches. She carried a fencing blade in one hand, its edge catching light like a teasing flame.
"You've been hiding again," Yasmeen said, raising a brow. "The palace is abuzz with guests, and you sit here with dead poets. Do you not tire of running from the world?"
Noor closed her book, her honey eyes flashing. "It is not running, Yasmeen. It is choosing."
"Choosing loneliness?" Yasmeen challenged, but her tone softened. "Or choosing battles no one else will fight?"
Noor smiled faintly, though her jawline held firm. "Both, perhaps." She rose gracefully, her hair catching the last of the sunlight like black silk, and reached for the blade Yasmeen offered. "Come then. Let us fight the only battles worth fighting."
The courtyard below echoed with the clash of steel as the two cousins sparred, laughter mixing with the ring of blades. Noor's movements were quick and sharp, elegant but filled with controlled fury, each strike carrying the strength of a girl who refused to be contained. Yasmeen's laughter only grew louder, even as she struggled to keep pace with Noor's precision.
Above them, in the carved arches, servants watched in quiet awe. They whispered among themselves that the princess was unlike any who had come before her. She was both book and blade, storm and silence. Some feared what such a woman might one day become, while others hoped she would be the very change the world needed.
But Noor Jahan did not think of the future in that moment. She thought only of the exhilaration of movement, of the pulse of life in her veins, of the freedom of not being a caged jewel in a palace of rules. For as the sun dipped and the shadows stretched, her honey eyes glowed with a secret vow: that her story would not be written by others, but by her own hand.
.....
The moonlight spilled across the courtyard like liquid silver, the faint rustle of neem trees blending with the chirping of crickets. In the quiet of the women's wing, two figures sat close together near the jharokha, their voices weaving through the night like a secret song.
Noor Jahan, her honey-colored eyes fixed on the starlit sky, let the cool night breeze play with her long wavy black hair. A book rested on her lap, though she had not turned its page in a while. Yasmeen Ali, seated across from her, leaned against a carved pillar, her fiery red hair gleaming even under the pale light. Her emerald eyes danced with mischief as she watched her cousin's distant gaze.
"Always lost in thought, Noor," Yasmeen teased, stretching her legs with careless grace. "Sometimes I wonder if the stars speak to you more than we mortals ever could."
Noor smiled faintly, her elegant jawline catching the soft glow of the lantern beside her. "The stars don't speak, Yasmeen. They simply listen. Something people rarely do."
Yasmeen threw back her head with a laugh, the sound echoing through the stillness. "Then you accuse me wrongly. Have I not sat here for hours listening to your endless talk of books, battles of ancient kings, and reforms no one dares dream of?"
"You listen," Noor replied, finally looking at her cousin with a fond softness in her honey eyes. "But you never understand. Not truly."
Before Yasmeen could argue, the creak of footsteps drew their attention. Mir Baksh, the palace khansama, emerged from the shadows, balancing a silver tray of sherbet and sweetmeats. His turban was slightly tilted, and his weathered face carried its usual half-smile.
"Two young queens of mischief, whispering under the moon again," he remarked warmly, setting the tray between them. "If your mothers knew you wasted your beauty and time on midnight chatter, they would have my head for encouraging it."
Yasmeen pounced on the tray, snatching a gulab jamun before Noor could object. "And yet you always come, Mir Baksh ," she said with her mouth full, "as if our whispers are your lifeblood."
The old man chuckled, folding his hands behind his back. "Maybe they are. After all, what else keeps an old servant awake but the secrets of youth?"
Noor shook her head, though her lips twitched with amusement. "You spoil us, Mir Baksh . One day Yasmeen will grow so demanding that no palace will hold her."
"On that day," Yasmeen declared grandly, licking syrup off her fingers, "I shall ride out with a sword at my hip and arrows on my back, and no man—prince or pauper—will tell me what I can or cannot do."
Her words ignited something in Noor. She closed her book and leaned forward. "That is where you and I differ, Yasmeen. You seek freedom through rebellion. I seek it through reform. If we truly wish to change this world, it cannot be only with swords. It must be with minds."
Yasmeen smirked. "And minds are not easily swayed, dear cousin. At least a sword can be sharpened."
Baksh cleared his throat softly, his eyes crinkling in quiet amusement. "And yet, young lady, even the sharpest sword dulls with time. A mind, if nurtured, can outlive generations."
Yasmeen rolled her eyes,but suppressing her smile . Noor's face softened at his words. She always found in Baksh a reflection of her own thoughts—measured, patient, wise.
"Tell me,Sir ," Noor asked, resting her chin on her palm, "do you think two women like us can truly change anything? Or are we just playing at dreams under the stars?"
The old man studied her for a long moment. His voice, when it came, was low but steady. "Noor bibi, the world does not change in one lifetime. But it does remember those who dared to plant the seed. You may not see the tree, but your courage will water its roots."
Silence followed his words, heavy and alive. Yasmeen, uncharacteristically quiet, traced the rim of her glass, her eyes softer now.
"You always know how to make her more impossible," she muttered at last, half-teasing but half-serious.
Noor leaned back, a flicker of triumph in her smile. "Impossible women shape impossible worlds, Yasmeen."
The night stretched on, filled with laughter and soft arguments. Yasmeen recited a poem she had overheard at the market, Noor countered with lines from a Persian classic. Baksh listened, sometimes chuckling, sometimes shaking his head, as though guarding their secrets with his silence.
When at last the call of the night watchman echoed through the corridors, Baksh rose. "Enough for tonight. Dreams are fine companions, but dawn is less forgiving."
As he left, Yasmeen flopped onto the cushions, sighing dramatically. "If only we could trap this world of ours in a glass jar, Noor. Keep it safe from dawn, from duty, from men who think they know better."
Noor reached over, tucking a stray lock of Yasmeen's fiery hair behind her ear. Her honey eyes glowed with a quiet promise.
"Then let us guard it, cousin. Our world. Our love for books, for laughter, for freedom. No dawn can steal that from us."
And in that moment, under the watchful stars, two young women built their own secret kingdom—a kingdom of conversation, of shared dreams, and of love too deep to need words.