Madari
“If you fail to inform the Sultan-E-Hind about my visit, this day could be your last!”
The words echoed in the soldier’s mind, gradually growing louder as he approached the Diwan-e-Khas. The voice of the man was filled with an intense fury, and his eyes glowed with an unwavering determination. He did not request to see the king of Hindustan but he demanded, as if it was his right.
Suddenly, the heavy wooden doors groaned open and the soldier, still catching his breath, hurried forward and dropped to one knee.
“Hazrat-e-Aala, forgive the breach of protocol…,” the soldier began, bowing his forehead to the marble. “There is a Madari outside the palace gates who claims he must speak with Your Majesty.”
The emperor Zakim Shah was not fond of interruptions during the court hours. His brow rose faintly. “A Madari?” he echoed, the corners of his lips curling in mild amusement. “What next? Shall a dancing monkey seek counsel with my generals?”
The court chuckled softly, but the soldier remained bowed.
“Send back the Madari and his Monkeys, I am no child to be amused by tricks and jingles.”
The soldier dared raise his eyes only enough to say, “He has no monkey, Your Majesty. No drums and no majira. Only five men. Strong, young… unlike any I’ve seen. They move like tigers held on leashes.”
“He says that he has come from a very far away land, ” continues the soldier. “He says that he has come from Andhkunda.”
A hush swept the hall. The Wazir-e-Azam, Ali Mirza, stepped forward from his place beside the throne. He folded his arms on each other respectfully.
“Your Majesty,” he said carefully, “If I may—this may be no ordinary performer. The name echoes in whispers from the corners of Kabul to the Bazaar of Bijapur. Madari Hasan Azad of Andhkunda. Some say he trades in more than spectacle… He brings men, not beasts. Slaves, yes, but none that pass through common hands.”
Jalaluddin leaned back on his throne, eyes narrowing just a little. “So, he is that one... the ghost who sells flesh like gems and chooses his buyers like kings choose heirs.”
“He does not approach just any court,” Ali Mirza continued. “To be visited thus… it is either a rare honor or a warning. Perhaps both.”
The emperor was silent for a moment, his fingers resting lightly on the carved armrest. Then, with a subtle nod, he spoke.
“Let the Madari in!”
The soldier bowed once more and rose to his feet, the echo of his retreating steps swallowed by the marble. The courtiers shifted, whispering under their breaths with fascination, the name Madari Hasan Azad.
***
The great doors opened with a solemn groan, and the soldier stepped aside. The sunlight from the opening gates cast a yellow carpet on the gray stone flooring. From the shadowed mouth of the corridor emerged Madari Hasan Azad.
He walked slowly, with a measured grace that suggested both pride and confidence — the gait of a man who had travelled many lands and feared none. He was clad in a simple white cloth, wrapped neatly about him, clean and plain. He had mounted a faded turban, which looked bigger for his head. A rugged leather bag hung from his right shoulder, swaying gently with each step like a silent companion. His face, weathered by time and trade, bore deep lines — not of sorrow, but of experience. His eyes were dark and still, the kind that measured a man before a word was spoken.
Behind him, five young men followed in silence — each with a proud spine and a still gaze, heads neither bowed nor defiant. They had muscular frames and wore kurta with colorful embroidery. They walked in unison, as if following a general. No-one could tell that they were slaves, ready to be sold.
They passed through a long corridor, framed by sandstone arches and lined with watercolor paintings on the limestone plaster walls. The paintings depicted lotus flowers, vines of different colored flowers, and animals like lions, deer, and elephants. However, most of the paintings were faded with time. Lanterns of cut-glass hung from above, though they remained unlit, as sunlight streamed in through the narrow jharokhas, casting fractured rainbows upon the floor.
At the far end, a wide marble staircase ascended toward the raised chamber of the Diwan-e-Khas — the Hall of Private Audience. The Madari climbed slowly, his bare feet touching stone that had once borne the weight of emperors, rebels, saints, and traitors alike. His men followed him.
As he stepped into the Diwan-e-Khas, the Madari took pause. The hall was vast, the floor inlaid with white and black marble that curved into floral patterns like frozen waves of wind. The air inside was still, fragrant with rosewater, and heavy with the scent of sandalwood oil burning in a silver censer. On both sides, tall arched windows let the sun pour in, casting long golden bands across the floor. Cushions of silk and brocade lay scattered for the nobles, who now watched in intrigue.
And there, seated upon the legendary Takht-e-Zarbaft, the Throne of Golden Weave, was Jalaluddin Zakim Shah.
The throne stood high on a marble platform, crafted from gold and inlaid with glowing stones. Two peacocks, carved with delicate detail, stretched their wings along the back, their eyes set with tiny rubies. The seat itself seemed to catch the light from every angle, casting a warm, golden glow across the hall.
The emperor sat tall, his presence calm and unshaken — as if he had always belonged on that throne. His robe was deep silver with fine patterns running through it, and it shimmered softly when he moved. Draped over his shoulders was a dark red cloak, heavy and still. On his hand was a single emerald ring glowing like a serpent’s eye.
At his side stood Ali Mirza, the Wazir-e-Azam, straight-backed and silent. His white turban rose high, pinned with a thin black feather, and his eyes were sharp, missing nothing in the crowd.
The Madari stepped forward and placed his hand over his heart.
“Salaam, Badshah-e-Hind, the protector of the land.” he said, bowing slightly, but not too low. “May your shadow never shorten.”
Zakim Shah did not blink. “You are the Madari they whisper of in back alleys and royal courts alike.”
“Names wander farther than feet, Huzoor,” Madari said with a faint smile. “But I am he, yes — the one from Andhkunda — The City of Slaves.”
He stepped aside, revealing the five young men behind him. They stood in perfect formation, each with the bearing of a warrior and the stillness of a sage.
Zakim Shah leaned forward, inspecting them with narrowed eyes.
“So you are with your slaves, but why have you come to see me?”
“To offer what few ever receive,” Madari replied, voice smooth as oil. “I bring to you not slaves huzoor… but Jamura.”
The king raised an eyebrow. “I have enough men to clean my halls and guard my gates. Why would I require five more servants?”
Madari’s lips twitched, almost in amusement.
“Servants fetch water, Badshah. These men… they shape fate. Each of these Jamura has been raised in silence, taught the language of steel and shadow. They have studied the Vedas, mastered the Shastras, and can strike in battle as swiftly as they dance in your durbar. They are spies, scholars, swordsmen. They sing like birds and climb like panthers. And most of all… they are loyal. Unshakably. Unfailingly. The sun may rise from the west, Huzoor — but a Jamura shall never disobey.”
A quiet awe hung in the room. Even the skeptical among the courtiers leaned forward.
“And what is the price of such rare obedience?” asked Zakim Shah scanning the Jamuras.
“One Jamura,” Madari said calmly, “is priced at a hundred gold coins.”
The king glanced sideways at his Wazir.
Ali Mirza gave the faintest nod, and understood the silent command. He stepped forward and summoned a servant. Within moments, a small chest of coins was brought forth. The servant counted out one hundred and one gold coins and offered them to the Madari.
Madari bowed with grace and accepted the weighty sum. Then, with deliberate care, he reached into his leather bag and withdrew a small object wrapped in cloth. He unwrapped it — revealing a majestic Damaru.
The Damru was a twin-headed, hourglass-shaped wooden drum. Its waist was adorned with red and black gemstones that glimmered like burning embers. Two delicate strings hung from either side, each ending in a single pearl—silent, still, yet waiting to stir the air with divine rhythm.
He handed it silently to Ali Mirza, who, puzzled, brought it before the king.
Zakim Shah took the drum in his hands, frowning.
“What is this… dumru for?” he asked, turning it in his palm.
Madari chuckled softly, and the sound seemed to echo with hidden meaning.
“That, Badshah, is not a toy,” he said. “It is the command. Strike it once — and your Jamura shall obey any of your orders. They will fight battles for you or churn out nectar from the sea. Anything you ask they will do. Anything”
The room fell still again.
***
The king took damru in his hand, glared at it for a moment then he rattled it lightly, its hollow sound echoed against the marble walls.
“Jamura!,” Zakim Shah’s voice rolled like velvet thunder, “Come forth.”
With silent steps and lowered gaze, a Jamura stepped forward. His bare feet made no sound on the cold stone. His body was upright, poised — every movement fluid, precise, as if he were an instrument tuned for obedience.
Zakim Shah leaned back, examining the young man with the eyes of one who inspects a sword rather than a soul.
“What is your name?”
The boy raised his head just enough to speak, voice calm and almost hollow.
“Jamura number Ek sau aath— (One hundred eight), Huzoor.”
The emperor narrowed his eyes. “What kind of name is that?” He turned to Madari, lips curling into faint amusement. “Is he a number or a man?”
Madari bowed slightly, hands clasped behind him.
“In the land of Anthkunda,” said Madari. “Where I belong, people with names are considered to be the highest class. Names — Huzoor give them pride and a sense of belonging to a place. Since these mens are to be sold and to belong ultimately to someone else. Therefore, we only assign a number. You may name him as you wish, for he is yours now.”
Zakim Shah’s fingers tapped once on the armrest of the throne, then pointed toward the boy.
“Names give them pride,” repeated the king. “Very well. From this moment… your name shall be Anarkali.”
A faint ripple of laughter passed among the courtiers, but Anarkali showed no reaction.
Ali Mirza stepped forward, curious.
“Huzoor, if I may—such loyalty and training must be tested. Let us see what this Jamura can truly do.”
Zakim Shah nodded. “Indeed. Let us begin.”
Ali Mirza turned to Anarkali.
“Listen well,
A plate full of pearls, shining bright,
Upside down, held in plain sight.
It spins and twirls above us all,
Yet not a single pearl does fall.
What is it?"
Anarkali kept his gaze lowered, hands at his side, and answered in a calm, unhurried tone:
“The answer is the Night-Sky.”
The court murmured. Zakim Shah let out a soft chuckle.
“MashaAllah. You are clever. Let us now see if your body matches your wit.”
He gestured, and a soldier stepped forward, offering a sword. The emperor handed it down toward Anarkali.
“Show us your skill with steel.”
Anarkali took the blade reverently, as if receiving a gift from the gods. Then, without a word, he began — spinning, slashing, slicing through the air with terrifying beauty. The sword sang as it cut through wind. Each movement was part of a dance; each pivot told of training buried deep in bone. Not a single misstep.
The emperor raised a brow. “How can you call yourself Anarkali unless you show us your dance?”
Laughter erupted in the court. A warrior turned dancer? But Anarkali, unmoved by ridicule, bowed and began to move. His limbs flowed like water, his gestures graceful and emotive. In seconds, the laughter faded into stunned silence. The ministers watched, breath held — for this was not mockery. This was pure art.
Madari and his four men were as immovable as stones, with no emotion or surprise on their faces.
Ali Mirza leaned toward the emperor.
“His skill is beyond question, Huzoor.”
Zakim Shah’s voice dropped into a darker tone. “Perhaps. But what of his limits?”
Ali Mirza glanced at the boy, then slowly nodded. “Let us find them.”
The emperor’s voice rose again. “Strip down.”
Anarkali obeyed. Without hesitation, he untied his kurta, removed it, and stood in nothing but his undercloth — proud, unashamed, like a soldier before a battlefield.
The courtiers exploded into laughter, fingers pointing, taunts flying. Yet Anarkali did not flinch. His eyes stared forward, as empty as a pond before storm.
The king’s amusement faded. He turned toward the window to his right — sunlight streaming through like the hand of fate.
“Ali Mirza,” he said thoughtfully, “I have often wondered… if a man jumps from this window, does he die… or does destiny catch him?”
Ali Mirza, already sensing the coming storm, replied carefully:
“There is only one way to know, Huzoor.”
The king rose from his throne, his face unreadable. He looked directly into Anarkali’s eyes — the first time he truly met his gaze.
“Go to the window,” he said, voice even. “Climb it. Jump. And if you survive… return, and jump again… until death takes you.”
The court went deathly silent. The air seemed to leave the room.
Madari stood still, his face unmoved — no sorrow, no pride, no fear.
Anarkali bowed. Without hesitation, he turned, walked to the window, and climbed its ledge. For a brief moment, the sunlight turned him to gold.
Zakim Shah’s eyes caught a faint patch on Anarkali’s back — a lighter shade of skin, the kind that remains long after a wound has healed. Then he turned his gaze towards the damru in his hands. The king’s mind was flooding with questions but as soon as he turned towards Anarkali, now standing by the window.
Then, he jumped.
***
The silence was shattered only by the distant sound of impact.
Ali Mirza rushed to the window, looked down, and after a pause, turned back.
A single nod to the emperor implying the death of Anarkali.
Zakim Shah stood still, stunned. How could anyone be so obedient, so utterly disciplined, that they would leap without a flicker of doubt?
The Emperor turned to Madari, masking the unease behind a carefully measured smile — one meant to hide the shadow of guilt from his own command.
“Your Jamura is… extraordinary,” he said. “I’ve rarely seen such loyalty. A slave that devoted to his master — it’s almost divine.”
Zakim nodded, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Without looking, he spoke to Ali Mirza.
“Buy the remaining four.”
Ali Mirza stepped forward, already reaching into his sash for the golden scroll of royal currency — when Madari gently raised a hand.
"Apologies, Huzoor," he said softly, "but the price… has changed."
“Changed?” the wazir’s voice snapped. “What is this madness?”
Madari remained calm.
“Words travel faster than the wind, Huzoor,” said Madari Hasan Azad calmly.
“We have a reputation to uphold. A Jamura spends his whole life learning to serve, to become useful in the hands of his Madari. If the Madari himself fails to see his worth, why should the world believe he has any?”
He adjusted the fold of his robe with quiet precision and added,
“Now one Jamura will cost one lakh gold coins.”
A stunned silence fell. Only the low, uneasy murmur of the courtiers stirred the air, like dry leaves rustling before a storm. Ali Mirza’s face turned crimson.
“Are you mocking us?” he barked. “This is extortion! You came here like a beggar with dancers and now you speak as if you sell thrones?”
“No, Wazir Saheb,” Madari replied. “I sell men worth more than thrones.”
Gasps. A ripple of disbelief.
King Zakim stood.
His voice, when it came, thundered across the Diwan-e-Khas.
“You dare set prices in my court? You come to my land and speak of value as if I am some merchant at the docks? If you will not sell, I will take.”
"Apologies, Huzoor," he said with a smirk. "But unless I willingly give you their corresponding Damru, they will not follow you.”
Zakim Shah’s eyes flared, blood rising hot and fast. The vein in his neck pulsed with fury. He clenched his fist, raised his hand, and pointed straight at Madari.
“SEIZE HIM!”
But Madari did not flinch. He did not even lift his eyes.
Instead, his fingers grazed the worn leather of the satchel at his side.
The four remaining Jamuras stepped forward in perfect synchrony, forming a tight square around him — silent, still… eyes like drawn daggers.
As the first soldier moved in, his blade drawn, a Jamura with a red turban sprang like lightning — a swift movement, a blur of muscle and precision.
A wet gurgle escaped the soldier’s throat. He fell, clutching the red bloom that burst at his neck.
Then chaos erupted.
Swords clashed. Shouts echoed. Blood sang across the air like ribbons of flame. The Jamuras moved with the coordination of wolves, not men — one blocked while another struck, one ducked while another leapt. In moments, five soldiers lay dead. Then six. Then ten.
Madari remained untouched.
Still.
A statue of calm amidst the storm — white robes unstained, eyes unreadable.
The courtiers shrieked, ministers stumbled back from their cushions, guards fumbled to regroup. The air smelled like a mixture of blood and sandalwood.
Then the four Jamuras turned — their gazes falling upon the ministers crouched behind pillars.
They began to advance.
Until—
“Stop!”
Zakim Shah’s voice thundered across the court, louder than the clash of swords. His hand was raised, palm outstretched.
The Jamuras halted. As one.
Madari kept his head slightly bowed — just enough for courtesy, never enough for surrender.
Zakim Shah’s gaze dropped to the marble floor, where his finest guards lay still, their blood pooling fast, inching toward the base of his throne. His mind raced with thoughts.
In the crimson reflection, he saw Madari’s faint smile. No regret. Only pride.
Time stood still.
“You killed soldiers loyal to the Empire!” shouted Ali Mirza. “Do you think you can escape the city walls?”
“That only Allah can tell.”, said Madari looking up. “I am just doing my job. Nothing else.”
Zakim Shah’s jaw clenched. His eyes lingered on the fallen men.
Ali Mirza’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword. As he was about to draw it. Zakim Shah raised his hand gesturing to Mirza to stop.
Zakim’s voice came, low and burning:
“Buy all Jamura?”
Wazir Ali Mirza stepped forward, confused.
“Apologies, Badshah,” said Mirza. “The palace treasury can’t afford all four. We… we can barely scrape together enough for two.”
“Then buy one.”
Ali Mirza bowed, swallowing hard. He walked toward the Madari, who still stood patiently, head low, as if nothing had happened.
“One lakh gold coins for one Jamura,” said the Wazir. “It will be placed in the wagon you arrived in. And one more coin… a token of the palace. You get more than you asked for.”
The Madari accepted the pouch with both hands, respectfully, as though it were not a payment—but tribute.
“Thank you, Huzoor,” he said softly. “It is always… a pleasure… working with kings like you.”
Zakim raised a single finger and pointed at one of the Jamuras—the one with red turban, the tallest one, the one whose eyes had burned like coals in battle, whose blade had sung like a wind-spirit through Zakim’s guards.
“That one,” Zakim said. “He shall remain.”
Madari turned, gestured to the chosen one. The Jamura stepped forward.
From his satchel, Madari pulled out a single Damru, tied in silver thread, and handed it to Ali Mirza, who passed it to the king. It felt heavier than it looked. Cold to the touch.
Zakim held it in his palm, then, with a flick of the wrist, shook it once.
The sound echoed like thunder in the chest, though it was no louder than a whisper.
The Jamura immediately came to attention and dropped to one knee before the throne.
Zakim leaned forward.
“You fought like a Shaitan in my court today. Therefore you will now be known as Shaitan Singh.”
The Jamura nodded, silent and still.
“It was… a memorable exchange, Badshah Salamat,” he said, bowing with a subtle smile. “A sword is only as powerful as the hand that wields it. These men—these Jamuras—are only as mighty as the one who commands their Damru. Tame them, and they will bring heaven to your feet.”
Madari turned with the remaining three Jamuras and walked toward the grand arched doors of the Diwan-e-Khas. His white cloth disappeared down the marbled corridor like a passing ghost.
Wazir Ali Mirza waited until the great doors slammed shut.
“Huzoor,” he said at last, his voice low, “how can you let him walk free? That Madari defied you—there must be consequences.”
Zakim Shah didn’t look at him. His gaze remained fixed on the bloodstained floor.
“I have not forgiven him,” the king said coldly.
“You saw what his Jamuras can do. And if there’s one Madari selling warriors like these, there may be more. If such power falls into the hands of rebels—or worse, an enemy kingdom—it could tear our empire apart.”
He turned slowly to Mirza.
“Send our best spy. I want eyes on him at all times. Track his route. Report everything to me.”
He paused, then added, “In the end, all Jamuras must serve me — or none must exist.”
Ali Mirza gave a tight nod, a thin smile tugging at his lips.
“As you command, Huzoor.”
Moments later, the court was dismissed. Servants stepped forward, silent and swift, mopping the blood from the polished marble as if erasing a story best forgotten.
***
In the evening, moonlight spilled through the tall jharokhas of the Diwan-e-Khas, painting pale silver streaks on the marble floor that was still stained faintly with dried blood. It was quiet, only the scraping sound of something dragging.
Anarkali was crawling.
His limbs twisted at unnatural angles — legs bent like broken sticks, head bleeding from the temple. Yet his eyes… they were alive. Focused. Drawn by an invisible command.
The same window.
The same fall.
The same death.
Two guards walked beside him with baffled expressions, hesitant to interfere, as if they were witnessing a ghost fulfill a sacred vow.
King Zakim, still half-dressed from his chambers, entered the hall with long strides. Behind him Wazir Ali Mirza trying to keep up with the King
Ali Mirza whispered, “Huzoor, please—stop this. This poor soul already proved himself. He does not need to die again to show loyalty.”
Zakim raised one hand, gesturing to keep calm.
Anarkali reached the window sill. He placed his battered palm on the cold stone edge. Then, as his foot rose to mount the window, Zakim’s voice shattered the stillness.
“Stop, Anarkali**! You need not jump again.**”
The Jamura paused.
Then slowly turned around.
Despite his injuries, he bowed. A low, painful bend of the torso, with the grace of a trained courtier.
Zakim walked to him, kneeling without hesitation.
He looked into Anarkali’s swollen eyes.
“You are not a Jamura anymore.”
Ali Mirza stepped forward in shock. “Huzoor... what do you mean?”
The King placed a hand on Anarkali’s shoulder, and said:
“From today, you will be part of my small council. You have earned a place not through bloodline or privilege—but through absolute loyalty.”
Anarkali blinked, a single tear rolling through his eye.
“It is my duty and my honor to serve you, my King. Whatever you command, I shall do—even if it ends my life a thousand times over.”
Zakim rose, his voice quiet but firm.
“Summon the Royal Hakim. Treat Anarkali as you would treat the blood of kings.”
As he turned to leave the hall, Ali Mirza approached, holding something in both hands:
Anarkali’s Damru.
Zakim paused. Took it gently. Held it up to eye level.
“When I woke up this morning, Mirza ji,” he said with a dry smile. “I was Sultan-E-Hind, but a man from Andkunda came...”
He gave the Damru a soft shake. It let out a hollow, echoing rattle.
“And he made me a Madari.”
Author Note: ✨ This scene will not be the part of the main plot of Band of Bastards.
So I turned it into a standalone short story.
It’s a glimpse into the mysterious origin of Anarkali—a tale of kings, Madaris, and the deadly bond of the Damru.
I’d love to know what you felt reading it.
👇 Drop your thoughts about Anarkali’s origin in the comments below.