12. Baaghi

Stepping out of the shower, I grab a towel and dry off, feeling the cool morning air against my skin. I quickly go about my usual morning routine: brushing my teeth, combing my hair, and getting dressed in a crisp shirt and slacks. As I button up, I hear the familiar sounds of morning activity in the house – the clatter of dishes, the low murmur of conversation, and the occasional laugh from Dada and Dadi.

I exit my room and head toward the dining area, greeting Dada and Dadi on the way. "Good morning, Dada, Dadi," I say with a smile.

"Good morning, bacha," Dada responds, looking up from his newspaper. Dadi gives me a warm smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

I continue on my way and almost freeze in my tracks when I see my tour guide, Ms. Noor, lounging on one of the dining chairs still in her PJs. She looks up at me with a mischievous grin.

"No Salam for me?" she asks, more like taunts, popping a piece of roti into her mouth.

I offer my Salam, settling in the chair across from her at the table. "Salam, Ms. Noor."

"Sadia!" She yells her every morning anthem. "Roti, please!"

Instantly, Sadia steps out of the kitchen, and our gazes lock. I flash her one of my charming smiles, to which she blushes and sets the hotpot of roti on the table.

"Thank you, darlin'."

She giggles in response to my heavily British statement, stuttering a meek "welcome" in return. Ms. Noor, on the other hand, chooses to roll her eyes and asks Sadia for tea instead.

"Aren't you getting late for work?" I ask Ms. Noor after Sadia has left for the kitchen again.

"No," she answers simply, finishing her roti while I start mine.

"How come?"

"Aren't you an impatient human," she sasses.

"More like completing things before the deadline kind of person. When I'm given a task, I don't get distracted and focus on finishing it before moving on to the next," I say pointedly.

"I figured that much." I blink at her one-liners that irk me to some extent. Not up for arguing yet?

Since she is in no mood for snapping at me, I wolf down my breakfast in no time and am also served tea. Looking at the time on my watch, I push to my feet, only to be stopped by my companion who has finally decided to speak.

"Where are you going?"

"Work. Where else?" I deadpan, chugging down a glass of water.

"We're not going to the office today."

"I'm sorry. We?"

"Unfortunately." She gives a detested sigh.

"I thought you don't mix personal and professional life together. What changed?" I narrow my eyes at her.

"Mumma's orders. She said we ride together to wherever we go now that we work for the same cause. Right, Mumma?" Ms. Noor calls out to someone who is probably standing behind me. I twirl around to see Saira mumma approaching us.

"What?" she asks in a groggy voice, setting her phone on the table.

"You asked him and me to share our ride, didn't you?"

"Yes, because it's outright dumb to go in two separate cars to the same place."

Ohkay.

Mumma disappears into the kitchen, leaving behind a confused-looking me and a calm-looking Ms. Noor who makes no attempt to leave the chair she is on or to check the time on her phone she is using. I clear my throat to grab her attention, earning a cocked brow instead.

"Aren't you gonna go get ready?"

"I told you already, no office today. Texted Afsaar about it and he is more than happy to not see our faces for once."

"Where are we going then? What's your plan?"

"Sit down Mr. Angrez while I pull my agenda for today. Or I keep it a secret and not tell you but take you there directly. How's that?"

"Urgh!" I sigh, rubbing a hand through my face. "Fine. Just tell me if it's outdoors or indoors so I can at least grab my cap and sunglasses."

"Of course."

Still not satisfied, I prod. "When do we leave?"

"After 10," she responds, with a hint of amusement in her voice.

I sink back into my chair, tapping my fingers impatiently on the table. Ms. Noor's calm demeanor only fuels my frustration. I glance at her, trying to gauge her intentions, but her face reveals nothing.

"So, you're not going to give me any clues?" I ask, my voice tinged with annoyance.

"Nope," she replies cheerfully, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

I exhale sharply, feeling the tension build in my shoulders. I can tell she’s enjoying this, savoring every moment of my irritation. As she sips her tea leisurely, I can almost see the gears turning in her mind, plotting whatever scheme she has in store for me.

"Fine," I mutter, trying to hide my frustration. "But if this is some kind of prank..."

"Relax, Mr. Angrez," she interrupts, a sly smile playing on her lips. "You'll have fun. Trust me."

Somehow, her reassurance only makes me more apprehensive. I finish my tea in silence, my mind racing with possibilities. What could she possibly be planning? And why do I have a feeling I'm walking into a trap?

⚜️

We pull up to a battered place, an old building originally painted white but now covered in pan art and mold.

"What's this place?" I ask her as we exit the vehicle and stroll towards the main entrance. She doesn't answer me—very typical of her—and steps inside the building, walking over to a counter and probably buying the two of us tickets. She leads me to the left side where a wide set of stairs awaits us.

"Mr. Angrez, welcome to the Nizam's museum," she announces with a sense of pride, her inner tourist now fully unleashed. Her tone carries a weight of reverence, and I can't help but feel a little intimidated.

Ms. Noor informs me that the stairs we're currently walking on were made a couple of hundred years ago from teakwood and boasts how, even now, there’s no spot of mold on them. I glance down, half-expecting the wood to creak under my weight, but it holds firm.

We enter what looks like the main floor, filled with a wide range of displays from the Nizam era. The air is thick with history, and my curiosity is piqued despite my unease.

"All the things on display are gifts from the guests of the silver jubilee celebration of the 7th Nizam, Mir Osman Ali Khan."

"Gifts?" I ask slowly, looking around at all the gold and silver pieces.

"Gifts," she confirms, and I can hear the smirk in her voice before meeting her gaze. "Unlike your Great Britain that has stolen half of the world's things to fill their so-called museums."

Her eyes flash with a mix of pride and defiance. I feel a flush of embarrassment, her words cutting deeper than I'd like to admit. Of course! How could she be nice to me for longer than a minute?

Ignoring her snarky comment, I take a closer look at the display case stacked with silver pieces and silverware I'd never seen before. There are models of buildings I don't recognize, Jack Sparrow-style ships, tea sets, filigree boxes, and a trove of other treasures.

A portrait of the man himself catches my eye, beautifully painted in black and white, exuding royalty. The painting showcases the Nizam seated regally, his attire adorned with intricate embroidery and jewels, symbolizing his status and wealth. His sharp features, well-groomed beard, and piercing eyes seem to observe the viewer with wisdom and gravitas. The backdrop includes opulent architecture, reflective of his reign's grandeur.

Moving on, I come across a bulletin board with a pair of picture frames. "What's happening here?" I inquire, pointing to a picture showing hundreds, probably thousands, of people flooding a street and surrounding a coffin-looking thing in another black and white print.

"That was when the Nizam had died and his janaza was brought to Charminar, the monument we saw yesterday, for the local people to see."

"So many people, huh? We had the same, presumably more, when the queen died last year."

"Your queen is no match to our Nizam." I realize what I've uttered in a daze when the sharpness in her tone returns. "In 1962, when the country's economy was hit by the war with China, this man volunteered to help by giving 5 tons of gold from his treasure. Osman Ali Khan volunteered. And your queen,"—I shut my eyes for what's to come next—"has only taken from places she ruled, giving nothing but trauma for generations to come."

"Yeah," I say quietly, praying for her to calm down. When I meet her gaze, she still looks pretty pissed. I offer a meek smile, extracting a huff from her, and that’s that.

We wander around the place a bit more until a head-to-toe painting of the 7th Nizam, whose name I've forgotten, comes into view. It’s a colored version of the black and white close-up I saw earlier.

"It's a diamond painting," Ms. Noor says in, thankfully, a normal voice with no underlying malice or exasperation. I shoot her a puzzled look, refraining from uttering a word to upset her any further, and willing her to explain. "It's a sandwich between two mirrors, made out of crushed diamonds with an illusion."

I cock my brow in question. What illusion?

"Walk from one end of the mirror to the other, eyes on his shoes," she commands. Doing as she instructed, I focus on the brown shoes, using my normal speed of walking to cover the distance between one end to—I pause, blink, and walk back and—

"Is that shoe following me?"

"Look him in the eyes, and do the same." I’d be creeped out had I not watched all those horror movies with Laila, not being able to differentiate between an illusion and something creepy.

"Cooooooooool!"

We go on to see more silverware gifts, swords, daggers, a gold diamond-encrusted tiffin box, carpets, and his majesty’s throne. Eventually, we reach a long hallway.

"And that is the wardrobe."

"Interesting."

"Have you seen your queen's closet?"

"Nope," I don't even bother.

There are attires on display in every single section of the entire two-level wardrobe, ranging from sherwanis, ladies' suits, and kids' ensembles, all apparently worn only once. Because the mighty Nizams never repeated their clothes or anything for that matter. Reaching the end of the hallway, we step outside, coming to the end of the museum's tour.

"You know, this was the first palace of our 6th Nizam," Ms. Noor says.

"Really?"

She nods. "Built 4 centuries ago."

"Certainly," I mumble, looking at the poor condition of the building. "What's next on your agenda?"

"Food."

"I'm not hungry."

"I didn't ask if you were hungry. I just said we have food next on the list."

"Can we maybe push food to later so we can cover another site? That way we’re hungrier for lunch. It's only 1 p.m."

Regarding me with a hard glare, she lets me know she doesn't like me challenging and changing her agenda but agrees nonetheless.

We head to another museum, the oldest one built by the Nizams, Telangana State Archeology Museum. The name has me break into a sweat because of the time it takes to pronounce it, and from the stare Muskaan fixes on me because of the amount of time I take to break the name and spell it in pieces. Tel-en-ga-na.

I expect it to be similar to the one we visited earlier, focusing on the Nizam, but surprisingly it isn't. It has a huge variety of displays ranging from stone sculptures to modern paintings to bronze works to manuscripts to different kinds of textiles. Buddhist and Hindu scriptures, an Egyptian mummy, a Quran with the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan's seal on it.

The next set of days are more or less the same. Ms. Noor takes me places in the name of getting to know the heritage of the city I’m to work in, most of which are museums of some kind. All of them offer nothing more than artifacts from the past. We leave home after 10 in the morning and spend over three hours in every place that doesn't even need that amount of time to merely look at the things on display before we eat something she likes and head home.

A week has passed since I reported to the office here, and still, I have nothing related to the actual project. The days are spent touring around the city, with no results whatsoever. Every night in bed, I text Majid who asks me nonstop questions and also gives me updates on what's going on at work there and how 'proud' and 'excited' George is now that I am here and doing my job. When in reality, I’m not even remotely doing what I’m supposed to.

This is where it ends.

That evening, I sit in my room, frustration boiling over. I grab my iPad and start researching actual heritage sites, focusing on architecture—the reason I'm here in the first place. A list begins to form, and I feel a spark of determination ignite within me.

Muskaan Noor Abdullah, this is where your reign ends.

💎🖼️

It's funny how I use Google and other people's videos to imagine myself in the museums and palaces of Hyderabad because I've never been to any single one of them. Ever. The least I can hope is to make you guys feel you've been to all these places through my scenes. 🫂

Cheers to virtual reality! 🤝🏻