٥.

THE PALACE GUARDS LET THEM IN, AFTER THE SULTAN was informed of his visitors and had granted the royal permission for access. Dilruba made her way inside as the guards parted and Ahya followed at her heels.

Immediately, the Badawi girl was struck with the cream marble that was every surface around her. The cream marble pillars, the carpeted marble floors, the marble domes in the distance that signified other extensions of the palace as she walked through the gleaming courtyard where the ground was of sand colored stone and there was carefully planted greenery that hoisted a singular but grand running water fountain in the middle of it all. The walls around fountain were short and flat, surfaces to drape on perhaps, with a hand extended inside as fingers dipped into cool water coming in from the fountain.

Dilruba watched everything in a composed awe, something akin to desperation itching at her heart. She had never fathomed such luxury as the kind that was etched into the walls of this palace. The grand dome of the main building of the palace—wherein she supposed lay the seat of the throne, was daunting and so high in the sky that it's tip almost pierced the sun a little, each day as it dawned.

Nothing about the palace was familiar, even though she knew she had visited as a child in her tween years. All Dilruba remembered from that time were voices, and the unfolding tragedy of her own life. She remembered the loss of her mother, the plunge into poverty, her father's loss of his sense of self. Amidst all the losses, she couldn't remember the details of this palace in Agrabah that was far removed and held itself—as well as its inhabitants—apart from the misery in Dilruba's tainted atmosphere.

At present, walking into the main palace building as a guard guided her way to the throne room where the Sultan was waiting for her, all Dilruba could think of was the luxury that her cousin and uncle had lived in all their lives, while she had tasted poverty and could in many ways—though she could afford many necessities—still taste it in her food sometimes.

She followed behind the guard guiding them to the throne room, and as she entered large and empty marble clad hallways, she felt the brown cloak she wore on her form weigh heavy on her. She was suddenly conscious of the cheap material of it, and she had to chide herself inwardly in order to not glance over at Ahya and newly scrutinize her own maid's clothing. For even the palace guards she had seen—including the one who was at present guiding her way—were dressed in a palace uniform, brown turbans, full sleeved white shirts and brown trousers, all in fabric that looked the most expensive that even the vendors on the street of Hegra had to offer.

Dilruba stifled her doubts, keeping hold of her composure. She had made care this morning to dress adequately and in her good jewels, and she had been making care for longer than that to acquire the good breeding and morals her father never thought to instill in her after her mother's death. Dilruba Badawi had done her best to bring herself up the way her mother would've wanted, regardless of the poverty she had been subjected to. She didn't know if the woman was proud of her if she was watching from above, but at least she would be satisfied.

Satisfaction was one of the drugs of Ancient Arabia. No man ever lived who wasn't satisfied. Satisfaction kept the heart and will going, and Dilruba knew that.

The guard guided them through another hallway, and this one was wider and grander than the others they had overtaken on their journey inside the palace. Dilruba was certain that the throne room lay on the other side, and sure enough, as they neared the end of the hallway, two more guards stood guarding tall intricate wooden double doors in the shape of a teardrop. 

At this point, Dilruba's heart started stirring in discomfort, making her breathing uneven again. She tried to calm herself, to level her own breathing. The guide guard stopped as they neared the closed double doors, he whispered curtly to one of the guards at the door and they opened one side of the door slightly for him to slip past and inform of the arrival of visitors. 

Dilruba exchanged a look with Ahya, and her maid's own calm demeanor resolved the discomfort in her chest greatly. Ahya had inquired much about what had happened on the street, but her mistress hadn't provided any details, only briefly mentioning a man who had rescued both the girl and the child from off the street. Dilruba hadn't wanted to elaborate upon her encounter with the man who had saved her, she didn't want to reflect on his harsh words and even harsher eyes. Thinking about him made her lose her footing, for he was complex and a mystery and she'd rather he remained that way and that she never comes across him again. 

The guards at the throne room door eyed Dilruba with discreet interest, and the girl suspected that they had already been made aware of her relation with the Agraban royals. The Sultan and the Princess of Agrabah had no other relatives, and perhaps they imagined that Dilruba was lying with her association—making a weak attempt at royal fame out of the cowardice or bravery of it. It certainly was plausible, for this was the era of wealthy men having multiple wives, about a thousand concubines with a dozen children from each. So why then did the Sultan have only a deceased sister and a niece from her and no one else? 

Dilruba remembered her late mother speaking of her own mother and father—Dilruba's grandparents—very distinctly, once when she was of ten summers. The former royals of Agrabah had had a great love and only two children from it. Dilruba's mother had been the Princess of Agrabah once, and the present Sultan had been only a Prince. But things had changed when the rulers had died, both of them dying within weeks of each other, one dead of an inexplicable disease and one dead by heartbreak of the loss. The Prince had become the Sultan of Agrabah, and the Princess had found the relief for the pain in her heart through love. She had fallen in love with a traveler from Hegra—Dilruba's father—and then she had renounced her royal Agraban titles to marry the commoner and move to Hegra, going on to have only a daughter two years before the Sultan had had his own daughter with an Egyptian Princess who he had married. 

Thus, Dilruba had no royal title to her name, for her mother had renounced all her own for love and companionship. She had no way of proving her relation with the Sultan and the Princess, for no official palace record kept track of a royal's life who had renounced their titles and wealth. If the Sultan and the Princess of Agrabah themselves decided to pretend they did not recognize her, and the royal invitation to the wedding hadn't even been sent—regardless of it being in Dilruba's hands—she would have to go back to Hegra, or would be thrown in the dungeons for forgery or impersonation. 

Suddenly, standing there waiting, Dilruba Badawi felt small. She felt as though the entire world had enlarged itself and she was left the size of an ant, at the mercy of everything and everyone around her. It was a despicable feeling, and suddenly she berated herself for having felt it. Why did she even come here? She should've thought about it, just because you receive an invitation to some place doesn't mean it is a good idea to pack your belongings and attend it. She could've said no, the governor could've found any other performer for the Princess' wedding to send as a gift, surely no performer would refuse the chance offer. 

But she was here now, was she not? It was too late for doubts. 

It was then that the door opened a slit again, and the guide guard appeared and slipped through, gesturing for the door guards to open the doors wide. 

Dilruba and Ahya stepped back a little and as the doors were thrown open wide, and Dilruba's eyes ventured onto the sight of the throne room. 

The hall was massive, sporting cream walls like every other part of the palace. Large windows overlooking the courtyard and the view beyond, were on every wall. There was red carpeting that lead all the way to the seat of the throne, wherein she could make out a short, stout and round man seated in regal yellow and whites robes, with a tall similarly colored turban sprouting a distinct and tall peacock feather. Dilruba couldn't make out the Sultan's face properly from how far she was, only his figure and that of the two people standing beside the throne. She saw the figure of a girl—her cousin and the Princess—dressed in a blue two piece with long dark hair braided to her waist, and the figure of a guy beside her, dressed in white trousers and a red vest with short spikey dark hair underneath a small cap. 

The latter was dressed with a lanky sort of ease, and she realized perhaps the soon to be Prince of Agrabah hadn't much cared enough to change his ways with his wedding on the horizon and the titles he would acquire in the aftermath of it. Curiosity ebbed at Dilruba then, what was it that made royal Princesses fall in love with commoners? What, about the life forthcoming after such a union, was intriguing? Would Princess Jasmine renounce her titles and wealth to marry as well, or had such a condition been set out only for Dilruba's mother? 

Reeling herself back to her senses, slowly Dilruba began her assent on the red carpet that led to the throne room, keeping her gaze low as she took firm steps and felt Ahya's form following at her heels. 

The silence in the throne room was palpable as they approached the throne, and when Dilruba realized she was adequately near, she dropped into a slow curtsey, before gradually straightening herself and reaching to drop her cloak's hood at the back of her neck. 

"Dilruba Badawi," The Sultan of Agrabah was the first to speak, his voice soft and low, devoid of any sort of intensity or firmness that the girl might've imagined. 

"Daughter of my late sister," He continued, as though doing his part of acknowledgement that he hadn't done for the past eleven years.

"My goodness, I see my mother in your beauty, my niece," The Sultan's tone became higher, as though he was excited. "You have grown to become just like her." 

Dilruba finally raised her eyes to meet the Sultan's, and found the man smiling a wide—almost childish—smile that she couldn't comprehend. His silver mustached round face bore no ill well, no hidden meaning or ill effect. He didn't look distrustful, he looked.. relieved? 

"I—I thank you, your majesty," She managed, suddenly thrown off. What had happened to the indifferent and cruel Sultan that she was expecting to greet? He had only invited her to the wedding out of propriety hadn't he? Because the governor of Hegra had already asked to send her to perform as a gift? Then why didn't the Sultan look the part? Why didn't he look the part of a man who had left his sister to her poverty and hadn't cared enough to inquire after her family for eleven years, not caring if they were alive or dead? 

"Though I believe she was a better person than me," Dilruba uttered, her heart swelling at being compared to her grandmother—her mother's mother—a comparison she wouldn't ever have dreamed of. 

Dilruba could only see the her own mother's face in glimpses in her memory. She had no paintings or portraits to remember her by, and no paintings of her grandmother too, but she knew for sure that the woman didn't dance for wealthy men at court or recited poetry for them for a living. Instead, her grandmother had been a privileged royal by birth and had married The Sultan of Agrabah. Dilruba's mother had embraced poverty for love, something that Dilruba couldn't fathom doing. If she ever fell in love with a man, she would like for him to atleast provide for her, something her father had long stopped doing for her mother even before the woman had died. Dilruba was certain she wasn't like either woman. 

"She would disagree to that," The Sultan smiled, "Still, I see her in you, it is as though she is standing in front of me again, still alive and happy, and only one of us has aged." 

The man raised a hand to wipe a finger at the corner of his right eye. 

"I see you have come with the intention of making father cry, cousin," A third voice spoke up next and Dilruba finally looked at the Princess Jasmine.

The Princess was two years younger than her, her skin darker than Dilruba's own, but her form thinner and like that of porcelain. The twenty and three years old Princess of Agrabah had sharp and big eyes, her irises brown like her father's, her height a few inches shorter than Dilruba's, her cupid's bow lips smaller. 

Dilruba managed a smile at her cousin, her green eyes meeting the girl's brown orbs. "That was not my intention, I assure you." 

Princess Jasmine smiled, slowly making her way towards Dilruba and pulling her into a careful embrace, before separating and holding her by the elbows. 

"My, you are beautiful," She beamed, before throwing a glance at the Sultan over her shoulder. "Father, was grandmother truly this beautiful? How come you have never mentioned her beauty before?" 

The Sultan shook his head slightly, a grief tainting his jolly manner now as his eyes fixed themselves in the distance. 

"She was the most beautiful woman in Arabia," He spoke in a dazed murmur. "People came to her city from all over the lands to catch even a glimpse of her at her father's palace. When she travelled to Agrabah to marry my father—The Sultan—people came from all over the lands to Agrabah just to catch a glimpse of her. My father knew he was the luckiest man alive, until the disease took him. He knew how lucky he was to have her love till his dying breath." 

Dilruba's heart beat gently in her chest. Did she truly have the beauty and face of her grandmother? A woman who died when Dilruba's mother was just eighteen—seven years before Dilruba was even born? She hadn't ever been told this before. If it was true, she felt that it had to be magic and nothing else. 

"She even had eyes like yours, my niece," The Sultan added, looking back at her. "A penetrating green that resembled sacred emeralds that those in the west worshipped at that time." 

"Well then," The Princess turned back to Dilruba, her hands still encasing the girl's elbows. "I'm honored to have her resurrected through my cousin."

Dilruba smiled, briefly looking away from the Princess' eyes and towards the Sultan, who's manner had taken a turn to that of a nostalgic melancholy. Dilruba felt the guilt of her presence having impacted his mood so, but mostly, she felt the guilt of making all kinds of harsh assumptions that she had about his nature before she had come here. Yes, The Sultan had abandoned her and her father for the past eleven years, not caring enough to decipher their living conditions in Hegra or attempting any aid. Still, Dilruba felt as though she could stand here and look at the man, but not see the person who had done all those things. 

"You too have grown up so well, cousin," Dilruba managed, watching her cousin's face light up at the compliment. "I'm glad the recent heat bouts haven't dulled the glow that I remember from our girlhood years, instead, you seem to have acquired more of it." 

The dark skinned girl grinned, batting her eyelashes with joy as she exchanged a discreet glance with her husband to be, whom she had yet to introduce to Dilruba. 

"No desert heat can ever tear me down now," Jasmine spoke slyly then, glittering brown eyes fixed back into Dilruba's green orbs. "I'm over the moon forever more, especially now that you are here. It shall be just like old times once again." 

"Oh!" The Princess let out then, her voice tinged with excitement. "Dilruba, allow me to introduce Aladdin, my husband to be." 

Dilruba's eyes settled on the man then, as Jasmine ushered him to approach with an encouraging gesture, her left hand falling from Dilruba's elbow and holding her palm. 

The soon to be Prince of Agrabah's walk was casual and easy as he made his way, grinning, to Jasmine's side, his lean form held carelessly as his manner reflected that of his sly street bearings. Dilruba managed a small smile, though she couldn't seem to appreciate the man's presence or purpose. The story of her cousin rebuking thousands of wealthy men—noble by birth and otherwise—for a mere poor man off the street in her very city, did not sit well with Dilruba. She didn't have any opinions on the matter, and didn't want to acquire any, but all of it wasn't exactly something that made her think in her cousin's favor.  

Already, coming here had not been good decision on her part and Dilruba had understood that the moment she had stepped into the throne room. Her interaction with the Sultan and her cousin had also solidified that fact. Indeed, she hadn't found them cruel or indifferent to her. Their welcome had been warm, but still the facts of their acts remained. Dilruba had been nothing to them for the past eleven years, and now when the governor of Hegra had offered to send her talents over as a wedding gift, she was suddenly a Princess' cousin and a Sultan's niece. They had only invited her because they had been forced to by the governor of Hegra's impromptu decision of goodwill. 

A wall went back up inside her, separating her from the scene around her and holding the deeper of her emotions at bay. 

"It is nice to meet you," Dilruba offered a smile to the street rat who was to be the Prince of Agrabah by marriage soon, as the man grinned and raised a hand to scratch the back of his neck in a careless shy gesture. 

"Uh, it is nice to meet you too," He spoke then, his voice smooth and crisp as his sand coloured cheeks dimpled. "Jasmine has told me much about you, I am glad to finally meet you." 

The man's complexion was lighter than Jasmine's, his skin color lighter than hers in the way that it resembled the the color of the stones on the streets—a yellower soft brown that enhanced the blackness of his irises. Suddenly, Dilruba was reminded of the man who had saved her on the street just an hour ago. The one who had previously watched her at her window last night. His irises were a deep black too, except they were different than this man's. Aladdin's eyes were bright, an openness in them that Dilruba related with naivety. The man who had saved her, his eyes held a heavy blackness—a closed blackness, the kind that she could only associate with tragedy, experience and a fierce resolve. Their eyes were different from each other's, just as they were two completely different men. 

Dilruba hadn't registered Aladdin's words, and as they slowly sunk in, she wondered what exactly he meant by the much that Jasmine had told him about her. What did her Agraban cousin knew of Dilruba's life? All the girl would've been able to tell her fiancé would've been their familial connection and anecdotes about their tween years that Dilruba hadn't thought about about for years. 

She was no longer the person that Jasmine had told her husband to be about, she was no longer that fourteen year old girl who had visited the Agraban palace for the last time before her mother had died. That had been a different time, and she had been on several journeys since— both physical and mental—and had cultivated her talents and done things that Jasmine's privileged life couldn't have asked her to do. Dilruba was not the same.

"And I'm glad that you are here," Jasmine started, her eyes glittering as she cast fond glances between both her fiancé and Dilruba. 

"I take it you are to exhibit some of your talents for us on the wedding day, my niece?" The Sultan spoke up then, and Dilruba swallowed thickly, managing a quick smile.

"It will be my pleasure, your majesty," She uttered, dropping into a slow curtsey. 

"The governor of Hegra praises your talents to the skies," The Sultan continued, "He calls you a charmer, a poetess and an accomplished court dancer all in one."

"I am grateful to the governor," Dilruba spoke, keeping her voice levelled, "I only hope I can live up to his praises and your expectations, your majesty." 

"Hm," The Sultan murmured, a smile forming on his face. "I believe you shall." 

Dilruba didn't say anything, offering her smile as a response. The Princess had no words to utter on the mention of Dilruba's contribution to the entertainment for the wedding celebrations, as though the girl didn't care at all who performed and when. 

"Oh, where are you staying?" Jasmine spoke up then, clutching Dilruba's hands in hers with an excitement.

"How long after the wedding are you going to stay in Agrabah? Oh, you mustn't leave soon after, I will need you here. Please, I do not have any sisters, you are the only thing closest to a sister that I have. I shall need your advice! Please tell me you'll stay!" 

Dilruba's eyes ventured briefly towards The Sultan, as the girl made note of the ruler's expectant expression. He didn't seem discomfited by his daughter's insistence, rather, the idea that Jasmine had suggested gave him a certain pleasure. Or perhaps, anything and everything that his daughter suggested gave him pleasure, and it wasn't about Dilruba at all. Some fathers could be like that, couldn't they? Just because her own father preferred drinking himself to sleep and begging random married women along the street for their company in bed, did not mean every father was the same. 

"The governor can only spare me for only a short period," Dilruba managed, her eyes fixed in her cousin's as she tried to muster a softness and deter the girl gently. "I will be leaving soon after the wedding—the very next day, but I shall give you all the advice that I've heard and learned beforehand." 

"Oh no, you mustn't," Jasmine insisted, before turning to look at her father, "Please father, tell her to stay a bit longer. We haven't been together since we were children, and now I'm getting married. She mustn't leave like a stranger." 

"I'm sure the governor of Hegra will spare you a few days more after the wedding," The Sultan spoke, his smile widening as his eyes settled on Dilruba. "I will write to him, he will not displease me." 

Dilruba thought of the governor's words when she had gone to see him before leaving Hegra for Agrabah. He had explained to her that it was the right thing holding herself apart from these royals, for democracy was soon to reign supreme. The governor didn't care about any of the Sultans, be it the Sultan of Agrabah. His act of sending her as a gift was just something to smoothen the tide he might've created when Jasmine had refused his proposal and he had left Agrabah the same day. After all, it didn't bode well for governors to not have good relations with Sultans who still sat on their thrones, regardless of the limited time it was alleged that they had left. 

"Then that's settled," Jasmine exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

"Oh, but, where are you staying?" 

"I have rented out a room in an apartment building in the market square with my maid," Dilruba offered, feeling her heart sink at the thought of having to stay longer in Agrabah after the wedding. 

The wedding was in one week, and she was set to leave the very next day. What would she possibly do here? Watch the Princess and the new Prince settle into their newly wed lives while hers was put on hold? Dilruba worked, she had recitals and appointments to perform at courts all across renowned cities in Arabia, if the governor gave her appointments to other girls, how quickly would Dilruba be forgotten by her clients? It had taken her a long while to solidify her reputation through her talents, and in her line of work, it was out of sight and out of mind. 

"Oh, come stay here!" Jasmine blurted out then, excitedly taking hold of Dilruba's hands.

"Please, it would be such fun. You can help me plan everything that remains for the wedding. I have the royal clothseller coming in today with a range of new fabric for my wedding gown. I haven't even decided my gown yet. You must stay here and help me." 

Dilruba's heart tightened in her chest, the walls she had set up inside her protesting loudly. Their was warmth coming from the manner that Jasmine and The Sultan spoke to her, and it all overwhelmed her, for Dilruba had gotten used to having no familial connections. The influx of these sudden attentions struck her odd, and in her heart, they angered her. Where was this familial warmth when she was struggling in Hegra as a girl of fifteen years old, begging on the street? Where was this warmth when Fatima aapa had spotted her one day and given her some food, before rubbing soot and mud on her face and hair and making her promise to never leave the house for begging without making herself appear the part? Dilruba—as a growing girl—had been in constant danger of being plucked off by preying men crossing the streets, and Fatima aapa had helped her counter it somewhat—a woman who was already alone and didn't have anything herself. 

So all this sudden warmth from people she was related to wasn't needed. Dilruba could very well do without it. Besides, she wasn't a guest at this wedding. This was just an appointment, and she would get it over and done with, giving her best like she did with every other appointment. 

"No, I couldn't," Dilruba spoke with a new found strength. "I have already paid for a week's stay at the place, perhaps I can consider your offer after my lease ends. But regardless, I will visit alright? I can help you choose the fabrics and anything else you need help with, do not worry." 

"Alright then," Jasmine exhaled, before smiling and holding her head high.

"Then whatever stay extension father manages to secure for you after the wedding day from the governor, you shall stay at the palace for the duration of it." 

Dilruba's eyes fluttered towards Aladdin, the man standing obediently at Jasmine's side with a permanent grin fixed on his face dimpling his cheeks. Then she glanced at the Sultan, finding another encouraging expectance simmer on his face. Finally, Dilruba's eyes found Jasmine's own and she mustered a smile, nodding her agreement. 

Dilruba didn't want to stay beyond the wedding day. She had no initial intent to and neither had The Sultan or The Princess managed to convince her like they thought they had. Dilruba would be writing to the governor to let him know of her own intentions before he received the request of extension by The Sultan. She had her own life to worry about, and wasn't a whole week of her presence, and her performance at the wedding day enough? Why act like they wanted more of her when they hadn't wanted anything of her for the past eleven years? 

Even at present, The Sultan hadn't once inquired about her father or how her life in Hegra had been after her mother's death.  

There was something odd about people of this sort, Dilruba realized. They wanted the entire world to know of their own lives and happiness and contentment, but wanted nothing to do with theirs.