The Moghul

Surat, through villages of thatch-roofed houses on low stilts. Women watched from the wide porches, sewing, nursing infants. After a time he no longer saw them, no longer urged the mare. His thoughts were filled with images from the tumultuous evening past.
    He had paced the vacant rooms of the palace till the early hours of morning, his mind in turmoil. Sleep was never a possibility. When the courtyard at last grew still, he had slipped back into the garden, wanting its openness, the feel of its order. In the moonlight it lay deserted, and as he strolled alongside the bubbling fountain, he felt himself even more lost in this alien place, this alien land. The pilot Karim had been right. India had already unsettled him more than he thought he could bear.
    In time he found himself wandering once more through the orchard, amid the wistful calls of night birds. The trees formed a roof of leafy shadows, cold and joyless as the moon above. Even then, all he could see was Shirin, poised defiant in the stark torchlight, taunting the queen. She had offered herself up to almost certain death, for reasons he scarcely comprehended.
    Before he fully realized where he was, he looked up and saw the observatory. A tiny blinking owl perched atop the staircase, studying him critically as he approached. Around him the marble instruments glistened like silver, while ahead stood the stone hut, forlorn now, more ramshackle than he had ever remembered, more abandoned. He reflected sadly that it probably would soon be forgotten entirely. Who would ever come here again?
    The door of the hut was sealed tightly and for a time he stood simply looking at it, trying to recall all that had passed inside. Finally he reached with a determined hand and pulled it wide.
    Shirin stared up from the table in shock, grabbing the lamp as though to extinguish it. Then she recognized him in the flickering light.
    "Why . . . why are you here?"
    Before he could answer, she moved in front of the table, masking it from his view. "You should not have come. If you're seen . . ."
    As his own surprise passed, he felt himself suddenly wanting to take her in his arms. "What does it matter now? You're divorced." The words filled him with momentary exhilaration, till he remembered the rest. "You're also in danger, whether I'm seen or not."
    "That's my concern."
    "What are you planning to do?"
    "Leave. But I still have friends."
    He reached out and took the lamp from her, to feel the touch of her hand. It was soft and warm. "Will I ever see you again?"
    "Who knows what will happen now?" The wildness in her eyes was beginning to gentle. She moved back from the table and dropped into a chair. He realized it was the same chair she had sat in when telling him about the queen. On the table before her were piles of papers, tied into small, neat bundles. She examined him for a few moments in silence, then reached to brush the hair back from her eyes. "Did you come here just to see me?"
    "Not really . . ." He stopped, then laughed. "I think maybe I did. I think I somehow knew you would be here, without realizing I knew. I've been thinking about you all night."
    "Why?" Her voice quickened just enough for him to notice.
    "I'm not sure. I do know I'm very worried about what may happen to you."
    "No one else seems to be. No one will talk to me now, not even the servants. Suddenly I don't exist." Her eyes softened. "Thank you. Thank you for coming. It means you're not afraid. I'm glad."
    "Why do you care whether I came or not?" He asked almost before realizing what he was saying.
    She hesitated, and unconsciously ran her glance down his frame. "To see you one more time." He thought he saw something enter her eyes, rising up unbidden. "Don't you realize you've become very special for me?"
    "Tell me." He studied her eyes in the lamplight, watching them soften even more.
    "You're not like anyone I've ever known. You're part of something that's very strange to me. I sometimes find myself dreaming of you. You're . . . you're very powerful. Something about you." She caught herself, then laughed. "But maybe it's not really you I dream about at all. Maybe it's what you are."
    "What do you mean?"
    "You're a man, from the West. There's a strength about you I can't fully understand." He watched her holding herself in check.
    "Go on."
    "Maybe it's partly the way you touch and master the things around you." She looked at him directly. "Let me try to explain what I mean. For most people in India,