Chapter 5: Garden Interruption
The descent into Kabul was a journey through layers of burnt umber and dusty gold. The mountains ringed the city like ancient, sleeping giants, their peaks still dusted with late spring snow. From the window of the royal jet, Tara watched the sprawling city rise to meet them, a tapestry of flat rooftops and minarets. Her hand rested near Amartya’s armrest, not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him.
He was scrolling through his phone, already fidgeting. “The last time, they had these honey-glazed almonds that were insane. I hope they’re on the welcome table.”
“I’ve already sent a note ahead requesting them,” Tara said softly, not looking away from the window.She had. Among a list of seventeen other specific items, from the thread count of his bedsheets to the brand of mineral water.
He shot her a grateful, lopsided grin. “You’re a gem. What would I do without you?”
You’d be adrift, she thought, but simply smiled.
The greeting at the palace was a study in orchestrated power. Shaibani Khan stood at the top of a marble staircase so wide it felt like a plaza, flanked by unsmiling guards in crisp uniforms. He was a barrel-chested man with a closely trimmed grey beard and eyes that missed nothing, eyes that calculated distance and advantage the way a jeweler weighs stones. His smile was broad, practiced, and didn’t reach those eyes.
“Prince Amartya! Welcome back to Kabul. Your presence honours this humble house.” His voice boomed, echoing in the vast entrance hall hung with colossal Timurid-era tapestries.
Amartya ascended the steps, his own posture shifting subtly from princely ease to diplomatic poise. “The honour is mine, Your Excellency. Your city has a beauty that stays with you.” The exchange was smooth, the handshake firm and photographed from six angles.
Then Shaibani’s gaze slid past Amartya and landed on Tara, who stood a respectful half-step behind and to the side. His smile tightened, just at the corners. He hadn’t been briefed on a female companion of this stature.
Amartya smoothly filled the space. “May I present Ms. Tara Sharma, a cherished member of our household and my sister’s closest confidante. My family felt her experience in cultural liaison would be an asset.”
Tara inclined her head perfectly, her modern silk dress—a deep emerald that made her skin glow—striking a deliberate contrast to the expected formal wear. “Your Excellency. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Of course,” Shaibani said, the words careful. His mind was visibly whirring, re-categorizing her from meaningless accessory to potential complication. “All friends of the Prince are welcome.”
It was then that Zahira appeared from a shadowed archway. She was a sliver of controlled defiance in a pale cream shalwar kameez, her hair pulled into a severe, elegant knot. Her beauty was stark, almost severe, but her eyes, when they found Amartya, held a flash of something bright and relieved. Then they darted to Tara, and the light froze over.
Tara recognized the look instantly. It was the same one she’d seen in the photograph. A woman assessing another woman, not as a person, but as a terrain feature.An obstacle.
Introductions were made. Zahira’s voice was cool, clipped. “A pleasure.” Her handshake with Tara was fleeting, her fingers cool and tense.
The formal welcome moved to a receiving salon, a cavern of gilt and lapis lazuli where tiny glasses of fragrant tea and, true to Tara’s request, a silver bowl of honey-glazed almonds were waiting. The initial conversation was a dance of geopolitics and platitudes—trade corridors, security, the symbolism of the new museum wing.
But Amartya, after a few minutes, leaned forward, his attention homing in on Zahira. “And the logistics? The last-minute troubles you mentioned by the fountain… are they resolved?”
Zahira’s composed facade cracked a little. She seemed almost startled that he remembered, that he led with that. “Some. The German conservators and our local team nearly came to blows over lighting. They wanted clinical. We argued for ambient. It becomes a mausoleum under LEDs.”
“Light is everything,” Amartya agreed, grabbing a handful of almonds. “It’s the difference between looking at a thing and feeling it. You were right to fight.”
Tara sipped her tea, the porcelain scalding against her lips. She watched the space between them shrink as they spoke. Zahira’s sentences, once clipped, began to unfurl. Her hands moved, illustrating a point about display cases. Amartya listened, actually listened, his head tilted, asking sharp, intelligent questions about provenance and humidity control.
It was a conversation. A real one. Not the flirty banter Tara had prepared for, but something more dangerous: mutual respect.
Tara inserted herself, not crudely, but with the soft precision of a scalpel. When Amartya mentioned a 16th-century miniature painting school, she gently added, “The exhibition in London last year had a stunning collection from that period. The notes on pigment sourcing were fascinating.” She directed the comment to the room, but its effect was to subtly remind them she was there, she was educated, she belonged in this dialogue.
Zahira’s eyes flicked to her, acknowledging the intrusion with a slight, icy nod before turning back to Amartya. “Yes, but the London curators missed the local folio influences entirely. It’s a common oversight.”
The dismissal was clear. Tara’s smile didn’t waver. She simply leaned over and, without asking, refilled Amartya’s tiny tea glass from the samovar. Her fingers brushed his sleeve. A silent assertion: I know how he takes his tea. I am the one who provides.
The afternoon wore on, a scheduled tour of the new museum wing looming. Shaibani Khan, silent for much of the technical talk, watched his daughter’s face. He saw the way her posture changed when Amartya spoke, the faint colour in her cheeks. He saw, too, the Indian woman, Tara, a serene, beautiful shadow, always interposing, always touching, always there.
During a momentary lull as staff prepared the cars, Zahira found herself next to her father by a towering potted jasmine. She kept her voice low, taut with frustration. “She is attached to him like a second skin. It’s impossible to speak freely.”
Shaibani didn’t look at her, his gaze fixed on Amartya laughing about something with his Indian security lead. “And do you wish to speak freely?”
Zahira hesitated. The word felt like a confession. “…Yes.”
A slow, deep satisfaction spread through Shaibani’s chest. This was better than he’d hoped. The boy was not just a political tool to her; he was a window. And she wanted it open. Good. Desire was a lever.
“The ribbon-cutting,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the fountain’s splash in the courtyard. “There will be a media scrum, then a private viewing of the crown jewel artifacts for select guests. The Indian delegation will, of course, be first. I will ensure the… accompaniment… is delayed by a necessary protocol briefing. You will have ten minutes. Use them.”
Zahira’s breath caught. She felt a thrill that was equal parts excitement and shame. It was a manipulation, her father’s favourite currency. But the chance to talk to Amartya, really talk, without that watchful, perfect woman nearby…
She gave a minute, almost imperceptible nod.
In the limousine en route to the museum, Amartya stretched his legs out. “She’s really brilliant, you know? Zahira. She’s not just a figurehead for the project. She knows every crack in every potsherd.”
Tara watched the fortified streets scroll by. “She seems very dedicated.” She paused, then added, lightly, as if it were an afterthought, “A bit intense, though. I hope the pressure from her father isn’t too much for her. It must be difficult, having your life’s work be also a political statement.”
She was planting a seed: linking Zahira’s passion to her father’s control, framing her brilliance as a symptom of oppression. Amartya was empathetic. He would feel sorry for her. And pity, Tara knew, was not a foundation for anything dangerous.
Amartya just shrugged. “Probably. But she’s fighting for it. Gotta respect that.”
The museum was a magnificent blend of ancient stone and modern glass. The ribbon-cutting was a blaze of flashbulbs and short speeches. Shaibani spoke of bridges between civilizations. Amartya, charming and off-the-cuff, spoke of stories whispered by objects. He was a natural, and the crowd loved him.
As the official party began to move into the secured inner gallery, a senior protocol officer approached Tara. “Ms. Sharma, if you would kindly accompany me? A brief but necessary security and photography briefing for non-royal delegation members. It will only take a moment.”
Tara’s eyes instantly sought Amartya. He was already being shepherded forward by Shaibani himself, Zahira falling into step beside him. He glanced back, saw her being led away, and gave a small, apologetic shrug.Duty calls.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was deliberate. She smiled at the protocol officer, a crisp, professional smile. “Of course. Lead the way.”
She was led not to an office, but to a side anteroom with a monitor showing the main gallery’s security feed. On the screen, in stark black and white, she watched Amartya and Zahira stop before a towering, illuminated case containing a Bactrian gold crown. The other guests, the minister, the guards, hung back. An island of space had been created around them.
She couldn’t hear the audio, but she could read the language of their bodies. Zahira was pointing at something on the crown, her face animated. Amartya was listening, his hands in his pockets, his head close to hers to hear over the ambient noise. He said something, and Zahira laughed—a real, unguarded laugh that transformed her face. She touched his arm, just for a second, to emphasize a point.
In the sterile, silent anteroom, Tara’s fingernails pressed half-moons into her own palms. The briefing was a drone in her ears. All she could see was the flickering monitor, the two figures in their isolated bubble, talking, connecting, while she was shunted into a room to be told about press embargoes.
The seed of joy she’d nurtured since Rukmini’s suggestion twisted inside her, sprouting dark, thorny vines. This wasn’t an arena. It was a chessboard, and Shaibani Khan had just made his first move.
He had separated her from her king.
And on the screen, the princess was seizing her chance.