May 5, 1798 – Surat, India
As they moved inward from the harbor, special carriages prepared for the Ottoman delegation awaited just behind the docks. Nefrise Sultan, accompanied by Zahide Hatun, Fidan, and Ömer Pasha, boarded the first carriage. The city gleamed under the morning sun. Palm trees lined the roads, and the air was filled with the scent of ginger, musk, and spices.
One of the local guides walking beside the carriages spoke ahead of the horsemen:
— Today, Your Majesty, we will allow a brief visit to the mining area for you. Afterwards, we will escort you to your residence.
Ömer Pasha remarked: — Caution is always wise. A first visit forms the first impression.
To which Nefrise Sultan replied: — If needed, I'll even read the language of stones, Pasha. Let our eyes stay open and our intentions pure.
After a short journey, the horsemen reached a large hill surrounded by greenery. From there, they could see emerald-green rocks lying in shadow, workers digging at excavation sites, and watchtowers standing tall.
Zahide Hatun squinted at the view: — These lands are not just stone… There's fortune here, too. If handled with justice, in the right hands.
Fidan whispered in awe: — Not even dreams shine like this.
Nefrise Sultan stepped down from the carriage. Her robes barely brushed the earth when the local mine overseer rushed toward her.
— Your Majesty, even the stones here will memorize your name. We are ready to work at your command.
Nefrise simply nodded, then turned to Ömer Pasha.
Nefrise Sultan: — Make a note. The living, health, and wage conditions of the workers are to be reviewed in detail. No one here will work merely with a pickaxe, but with honor.
Ömer Pasha: — As you command, Your Majesty.
The day passed with brief introductions and observations. They then set off to their place of residence. As the road curved, the greenery grew denser, resembling paradise. And at last... a large mansion emerged between the trees. The Ottoman tughra was carved upon its face. It was surrounded by fountains, lotus ponds, and orange trees. Every detail bore both grace and might.
Zahide Hatun sighed in admiration: — Even the breath of our ancestors carried a different scent… This house seems to have awaited your arrival.
Fidan ran inside, full of excitement: — Your Majesty, even the sky looks different from the balcony!
Nefrise Sultan entered the house with deliberate steps. Her palms brushed the carved patterns on the walls. On these lands, a new rule had now begun.
Ömer Pasha silently watched her. He remembered the young woman he had first seen in the palace courtyard—resolute, noble, and walking toward a dream.
Ömer Pasha said: — Nefrise Sultan is no longer just a woman of the dynasty... She has become the shadow carrying the fate of this land.
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May 5, 1798 – Residence of the Governor of Surat / Evening Reception
Wearing an imperial caftan of heavy brocade, Nefrise Sultan stepped into the mansion's stoned courtyard with Ömer Pasha at her side. Two Ottoman guards followed quietly behind. Zahide Hatun and Fidan had stayed behind, preparing their quarters.
As the grand arched door opened, the large hall inside—lit by lanterns, with velvet curtains and vibrant carpets—seemed to beckon them into another world. All eyes instantly turned to Nefrise Sultan. Her fair skin, pearl-embroidered headpiece, and graceful walk silenced every color in the room.
Though the local women proudly wore their embroidered saris, Nefrise's elegance and clarity made them avert their eyes.
The first to break the tension was the Pratap family. Rahul Pratap stepped forward, gently clasped his hands, and bowed slightly:
— May the gaze of Goddess Saraswati be upon you, Your Majesty. There is wisdom in your words and oceans in your eyes.
Nefrise Sultan nodded slowly, without smiling:
— Wisdom is not in the language spoken but in the heart that hears it, Mr. Pratap.
Then came the Anwar family. Two young children hid behind their mother. Abay Anwar placed a hand on his chest and greeted her:
— Seeing the presence of the Ottomans on this land restores our sense of safety.
Nefrise gave a brief nod in return, not forgetting to wink at the children.
As the Singh family approached, the room tensed again. Manu Singh examined Nefrise from head to toe without blinking.
— To be strong is one thing, to carry it is another. Women are graceful, not rulers.
Nefrise stepped closer, her gaze sharpening:
— Strength is not in gender but in stance. No one rests under a tree that casts no shade, Mr. Singh.
While some women lowered their heads, the young girls' eyes sparkled.
Just then, someone emerged carefully from the crowd. A young woman with large eyes and a simple yet elegant sari bowed politely:
— I am Meera Devaki. We are honored, Your Majesty. Welcome.
Nefrise studied Meera attentively. There was a silent but alert intelligence on her face.
— Calm eyes mirror a calm heart, Meera Devaki. Thank you.
Meera gestured to the cushion beside her. It was time for the meal. Large copper trays and small bowls were laid out before them. The air was alive with the aroma of spices as people reached for food with their hands.
Nefrise paused for a moment, slowly turning to Ömer Pasha.
— Pasha... Is this how it always is?
Ömer Pasha bowed slightly, offering a faint smile:
— Yes, Your Majesty. Here, hands are not only for labor but also for meals.
Nefrise leaned in, whispering delicately:
— Should I ask for a fork and spoon? Or… should I try to adapt?
Ömer Pasha smiled, eyes wandering:
— Whatever makes you comfortable, Your Majesty. I can have a set brought in.
Nefrise glanced around briefly, then turned back:
— Yes, please... For now, a fork and spoon would be more appropriate.
Ömer Pasha rose and walked toward the attendants, who respectfully made way. He spoke softly. Soon, a small tray with delicately engraved cutlery was brought in. As he returned, he gently placed them before Nefrise.
— Here you are, Your Majesty. Adaptation takes time—but everything begins with custom.
Nefrise bowed her head slightly. Her eyes shone with a glimmer of gratitude.
— Thank you, Pasha… Even here, you never abandon your refinement.
Ömer Pasha smiled lightly:
— Wherever the shadow falls, courtesy always carries light, Your Majesty.
At that moment, a quiet pause came over the table. Abay Anwar leaned forward slightly:
— Your Majesty, such meals may surprise you after such a long journey. But here, we say you must touch the soul of the food.
Nefrise nodded gently:
— Every nation has its own grace. Learning… will be my first duty on this land.
Rahul Pratap, in a low voice:
— Wisdom begins with the eyes. We are honored to listen to you, Your Majesty.
Just then, Meera Devaki rose gently and smiled:
— With your permission, I am Meera. On behalf of my family, I offer you my respect. They could not attend the banquet today. Your arrival is a precious beginning for us.
Nefrise saw sincerity in Meera's eyes. She placed a hand over her heart:
— Meera Devaki… Your grace goes beyond words. I hope this meeting is the start of many friendships.
Ravi Banerjee furrowed his brow but said nothing. He only bowed.
Rohit Singh spoke with a deep voice:
— India has hosted many guests over centuries. But never has one left such... a powerful impression.
Nefrise merely smiled. Her beauty, poise, and curiosity made her presence more powerful than words.
As the meal ended, cinnamon and ginger-infused drinks were served. In the garden, a small stage was lit with delicate lights. Traditional Indian music played in the background, lending a mystical atmosphere.
One of the host families, the Anwars, turned to the guests and pointed to the stage.
Abay Anwar: — We have prepared a small dance performance in your honor this evening, Your Majesty. We hope you enjoy it.
Nefrise offered a graceful nod. She was aware of the eyes following her every move. Her fair skin, serene beauty, and regal presence drew all attention. Among the women, subtle movements and jealous glances stirred.
Ömer Pasha stood out among the local men. His broad frame, defined features, and stoic posture intrigued them. Young men especially seemed to study him in silence.
When the dancers appeared, spinning in colorful saris, they resembled a painting in motion. Their hands rose with elegance, silently expressing centuries of stories. Nefrise was lost in the gentle rhythm when Meera, seated on a cushion nearby, leaned toward her.
Meera: — This dance is our prayer. Through color and movement, we offer our respect to the gods. I hope it hasn't wearied you.
Nefrise smiled gently, bowing her head: — On the contrary, each figure feels like a story. I may not know its meaning, but I can feel what it says.
Meera's eyes sparkled warmly: — The effort to understand is enough. Not everyone tries.
Watching from afar, Ravi Banerjee turned his eyes away, envious of Meera's sincerity and joy. The night unfolded with a quiet but calculated tension.
Shortly after, Ömer Pasha approached Nefrise. Small groups had formed across the garden, conversations growing.
Ömer Pasha: — Is anything bothering you, Your Majesty?
Nefrise: — No, everything is fine. But if you look closely, everyone is watching us. It's a bit too quiet.
Ömer Pasha smiled faintly: — They're not used to this. It's the first time they're seeing you. (He added after a glance around) — Some watch in admiration. Others are calculating. Power always draws attention.
Nefrise, scanning the crowd slowly: — Let them watch. We will do our work, Pasha.
Ömer Pasha: — At your command, Your Majesty.
The evening slowly drew to a close. Indian music softened, dancers performed their final steps, and the crowd began to form tighter circles. All eyes lingered on Nefrise Sultan—her fair skin, calm demeanor, and eyes full of meaning.
A little behind, Ravi Banerjee watched Ömer Pasha with growing curiosity. Standing at the edge of the garden, the Pasha stood tall, silent and imposing. Ravi approached.
Ravi Banerjee, with a slight edge: — That much silence is almost too noble. Or do you feel too much like a stranger here, Pasha?
Ömer Pasha turned to Ravi, his expression unchanged. His voice was sharp and clear: — It is not the place that creates strangers—it is behavior. I know my place. It would do you well to know yours.
Ravi paused, caught off guard. He retreated with a faint smirk, but the spark in his eyes remained. At that moment, Ömer Pasha turned his eyes to Nefrise in the crowd. He approached her quiet corner.
Nefrise sensed his approach and turned slightly.
Nefrise Sultan, with a hint of a teasing smile: — What's wrong, Pasha? Was the conversation too… 'delicate' for your taste? It wasn't hard to read your face.
Ömer Pasha, after a brief pause, locked eyes with her: — I wouldn't say I didn't enjoy it. But too many embellished words can blur truth. Simplicity sometimes speaks more clearly.
Nefrise smirked: — So, you favor simplicity… Interesting. I, on the other hand, believe what's left unsaid is often stronger than what's spoken.
She walked past him, firm in her steps. He followed shortly behind. As they left the Anwar residence, the night wind rose. The warm scent of Indian night surrounded them—jasmine, incense, and earth.
They walked in silence. When they reached the mansion, Ömer Pasha opened the door. Nefrise nodded her thanks and entered. Inside, the dim light from candles cast a serene atmosphere. Fidan and Zahide Hatun had withdrawn, and the mansion was quiet.
Ömer Pasha moved to the window with hands behind his back.
— The Pratap family caught my attention. Especially Rahul Pratap… He speaks little, but his words weigh heavily. The influence of religion on the people is clear.
Nefrise turned from the sofa: — And they silence their women. Anjali Pratap hides her intelligence in her brother's shadow.
Ömer Pasha nodded. — The Singh family is tougher. Manu Singh threw challenging glances at you.
— He did, yes… but he didn't say a word. Because now, it's our turn to speak.
Nefrise leaned back: — The Anwars are more moderate. They know they must balance in trade. Abay Anwar's respect was diplomatic. I'm still unsure of his true feelings.
Ömer Pasha smiled lightly: — Still, everyone watches closely. A throne may not have been placed for you, but they've already begun to weigh you, Your Majesty.
Nefrise walked to the window, parting the curtain. The moonlight over the garden pond lit her face.
— I'm not afraid of being weighed, Pasha. But if the hands holding the scales tremble… that's when trouble begins.
After a pause, Ömer Pasha gave a bow: — Then, with your permission, I'll take my leave. The mind needs rest tonight as well.
Nefrise nodded: — Rest, Pasha. Tomorrow, the pieces will begin to fall into place.
Ömer Pasha left quietly. Only the deep silence of the night and the walls now bearing a new balance remained.
That Same Night – Ömer Pasha's Mansion
Loneliness had settled inside the house. The flickering candlelight cast soft shadows on the walls. Ömer Pasha sat at his desk, reviewing notes in a small notebook. He had listed each family. At the end of the page, he paused. His pen rested on the name Devaki.
Ömer Pasha thought to himself:
"The Devaki family... They don't like to be seen much, but wherever they are, they leave a trace."
He paused for a moment. Then, murmuring softly, he began to write:
— Bhavin Devaki. The family's representative. Older than the others, yet still stands tall. He doesn't speak often — he listens. But when he does speak… everyone falls silent. His donations to Indian temples are much talked about. He has a strong spiritual side.
— As for the women of the Devakis… they stay mostly out of sight. They are involved in medical sciences and the trade of medicine. They're not as powerful as they once were, but far from weak. The people treat them with respect.
He closed the notebook and leaned back in his chair. Before closing his eyes, he whispered to himself:
— There were many who shone tonight, but the shadows of those in the dark stretched far. The Devaki family — perhaps the quietest, yet the one with the longest shadow…