Page 91 of The Love Match

Even as they do, a giant pomegranate flower descends from the top of the stage, paper petals pressed together around a glowing pistil. The singers, women and girls in bright green and red shalwar kameezes with orange flowers in their hair, dance nimbly out of the curtains on either side of the stage and twirl beneath the bud, telling the tale of how the younger queen struck a bargain with a traveling magician for a child.

“Dalim Kumar, blessed by the stars,” sings a pixie-like little girl Resna’s age in English, joined by other costumed children. “Matchless near and far, Dalim Kumar!”

Nasrin’s voice rises above the rest. “A prince like no other, treasure of me, his mother!”

She claps her hands—once, twice, thrice, each clap summoning the thunderous pounding of the drums. The pomegranate flower begins to tremble. By the third clap, the petals tear and scatter when a tall man in a golden mask bursts forth from it, waving a prop sword—presumably the famed Prince Dalim Kumar, played by Nasrin’s son.

“Dalim Kumar, zeh naam amaar,” he sings in a crisp, carrying tenor, introducing himself.

Although his face isn’t visible, he certainly appears matchless, floating over the rest of the actors on a rising platform that escaped the pomegranate bud, wearing an opalescent pagri and a fanjabi beaded with pearls and gold thread.

“Nanu told me this kiccha,” a round-eyed Resna stage-whispers from Arif’s lap.

Nanu somehow hears her over the queen and prince’s duet and nods. “It’s a famous story fromThakurmar Jhuli. They took a few liberties, but I watched every week on NTV. Nasrin played the role of Dalim’s princess then, but she looks so regal as the queen now.”

“They’re seriously going all out, huh?” Harun mumbles next to me.

Hanif narrows his eyes at the theatrics. “How do they have the production values for this? And how did they get a permit so fast?”

I shrug wordlessly, watching with bated breath as Nasrin’s gaze passes over the gathering until stopping, almost eerily, on me. Conversationally, she asks, “Shouldn’t a prince so handsome, so majestic, have a princess?”

The spectators scream their agreement.

Although his face is hidden, the smile in the prince’s voice is apparent when he speaks. “What if I told you all… she’s already here?”

Spotlights shine across the blankets where we sit.

A gasp rips out of me when I turn to find dancers flitting through the audience, stopping to gaze dramatically into the faces of girls in the throng, shaking their heads each time, until they finally convene in front of the stage and pirouette around to face—

Me.

I work my jaw as they open their bangled arms in my direction, not quite believing it even when they croon, “Zahra, tumare sara zara zai tho nai!”

Can’t bear to… be without me?

I know that melody. But the last time I heard it was… my stomach drops.

I’m too stunned to stop the two dancers who reach for my arms and hoist me to my feet, though I feel someone attempting to grasp my skirt—perhaps Harun.

Twirling around me, they lead me up the steps to the stage. The crowd is practically feral, cheering so loudly that they drown out the singers’ voices and the booming of the drums.

My feet move of their own accord toward the raised dais, where the masked prince lowers a hand to me. I can feel my pulse thrumming in every vein, my breath coming in short spurts, but the sooner I let this play out, the sooner I hope I can go back to Harun and my family. I steal a glance at the blanket where I was just seated and see my mother’s beaming face. I look ahead once more and see the stage right before us. The prince reaches down toward me.

I take his hand.

The prince tugs me up so fast, I stumble into his chest, then glance up to meet his gaze at last. Familiar honey-gold eyes twinkle back at me.

A shaky breath wrenches out as I whisper, “How in the…”

Elegant fingers entwine around my own as the prince kneels in front of me. Gripping my hand in his, he uses his other hand to remove his mask and the pagri, baring his handsome face to the world.

A murmur begins to ripple through the audience as the onlookers in the front relay their discovery of the prince’s identity to the others. I don’t need to hear them to know what they’re saying.The dishwasher… orphan… Nasrin Shah’s son?… That means…

Louder than the rest, Mr. Tahir exclaims, “Nayim?!”

No longer singing, Nayim says, “Zahra, you were the first person to like me, to believe in me, for who I am, rather than because of my family’s wealth or title. I missed you every breath we were apart. Without you, I was a total mess.”

The mic taped to his cheek carries his speech throughout the entire park, to deafening gasps, cheers, and applause.

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