The air was heavy with the fragrance of jasmine and attar mingling with a whisper of flavored hookah smoke in the courtyard of the haveli in Lucknow. 1942 was springtime; a restless energy hovered over the city, suspended between the poise of the old world and the fervor of the new. Zoya Siddiqui reclined against a velvet cushion under the embroidered shamiana, engrossed as her dupatta slipped slightly down her shoulder. The mushaira was now in full swing, and, as if with the weight of dreams and dissensions, words hummed through the night.
At the age of nineteen, Zoya had become quite familiar with these gatherings. Her father, Nawab Haider Siddiqui, a respected absentee landlord, held such events in order to keep the family countenance amongst the elite of Lucknow. But something about this night felt escaped from normal. The poets clad in shervani and kurtas spun their phrases with an undeniable violence, a delicate reconciliation between tradition and rebellion, their backs almost brushing the walls in lady whispers of the Quit-India Movement outside the haveli's walls. Zoya's pulse started racing through her body; not just for the poetry, but with the recognition of some larger undercurrent, something that awoke feelings inside her that her sequestered life rarely allowed.
The flickering flames of the oil lamps threw shadows over the audience's face-men with neatly groomed beards, women in silk sarees and glittering jewelry like stars. Zoya's mother, Begum Naseem, sat stiffly beside her, her hawk-like eyes searching for any signs of breach. "Sit straight, Zoya," she murmured, her voice low but firm. "You are not a child anymore." Zoya adjusted her dupatta, pulling at it almost absently with fingers brushing over the emerald pendant dangling at her throat, a gift from her father. She obeyed but was otherwise restless, her eyes wandering about for something nameless.
The emcee, portly, with a waxed mustache, introduced the next poet. "Arjun Sharma, a young voice from Allahabad, whose words burn like the first flame of dawn." A hush ran through the audience. By all accounts, Allahabad was the cradle of revolutionary thought, and the name Sharma implied he was not of the nawabi class. Zoya's interest further ripened as she witnessed the young man stepping into the courtyard's center.
Arjun was tall; his lean frame expressed both strength and defiance. The kurta, made of white cotton-the epitome of simplicity-was embellished only by an almost indistinct ink stain on the cuff, a sign of his being a poet. The rays of lamplight illuminated his sharp, restless gaze and dark hair, which soared forward slightly on his forehead. Slightly bowing his head, he recited his nazm in a low yet strangely amplified tone, cleaving through the night.
> The river of our blood runs dry, yet we dream of rain,
> Chains rust in the silence, but the heart beats unchained.
> O land of a thousand tongues, why do you sleep?
> Rise, for the dawn is not promised, only earned."*
The words knocked against Zoya with a gust of wind. This was no whisper of the soft ghazal of love and loss, no gentle ode to the moonlit gardens of Awadh. It was an unapologetic call, bold in its imagery and undeterred by mirthful civil disobedience. She cast a glance toward her father, seated among the dignitaries, his brow gravely furrowed. The crowd was split—some mesmerized and leaning forward in eager anticipation; others stooping to whisper uneasy comments. Arjun's nazm talked of freedom, of a nation stirring under the weight of empire, and it seemed he had ignited a spark in that room.
Zoya's breath caught as Arjun's eyes swept across the audience, lingering—if only for an instant—upon her. Was it just her imagination? But Zoya felt the warmth creep upon her cheeks. A furtive glance was spared downward upon her hands, the fingers urging her to twist and pull at the training edge of her dupatta. The poem came to its conclusion, giving way to clapping, the very large courtyard echoing with it; some, however, cautiously applauded, aware of the very British officers who might overhear. The nazm ended, and Arjun was drifting away, a mask on his face; an ache Zoya could not define accompanied the dull ache of wanting to meet the man behind those words.
With the mushaira still going on, Zoya's thoughts were all for Arjun. She cast him quick glances, now seated among the poets, still looking very much down as he scribbled on a small notebook. What inspires a man to speak so fearlessly? And why do his words sound like just for her?
Time because moments were ceaseless, and the poets raised and fell like the tides. When the sumud gathered, Zoya lingered, pretending to fix the silk shawl that had been thrown gracelessly over her head while her mother was conversing with the other begums. The courtyard was now empty, except for the few servants clearing up the cushions and lights. Then she saw him; Arjun stood by the fountain, softly conversing with a fellow poet, and the sight sent her heart racing. She knew she should turn and leave, but her feet were moving toward him as if a force were pulling her along, a force she could not fathom.
"Beautiful words," she said softly, startling herself. There was a slight tremor in her voice, but she held his gaze.
Arjun turned, narrowing his eyes for a moment before softening them. "Thank you," came his softly spoken reply, almost intimate. "Though I suspect more trouble than beauty has been caused tonight by them."
Zoya smiled, slight but defiantly. "Some troubles can surely be beautiful, can they not?"
He regarded her, seeming to weigh her words and her presence. "Only if you are brave enough to confront them," came his reply, with a challenge in the tone, a spark to fit the fire of his poem.
Zoya felt the tiniest displacement of her world then. She did not know his name yet, but she did know that this moment would change her. That night of the mushaira woke something fresh, something that felt like the first spark of a flame that she could not yet name.