Tell Me A Story

King Shahryah loved his wife more than anything, but he was a cruel, neglectful man. When she strayed into the arms of another, his solution was quite simple. He decided

Mother of the bride. I should carry a lace handkerchief and wear something outrageous on my head. Of course, I will not be permitted to speak. Instead, her father will share pointless anecdotes about the way that our daughter mixed up her languages when she was small. And I will sit to the side, dabbing my eyes, pretending. It’s difficult to be overwhelmed with happiness when I know that my child will die tomorrow.

to take his revenge in the only way that he knew how. With violence. He dispensed with his wife and her lover by cutting them in two, just as his brother, Shah Zaman, had done when he was betrayed by his own wife. Then

If I could write a speech, I wouldn’t talk about her great intelligence or her accomplishments. I would talk about the person she has always been: curious to a fault and stubborn as a donkey. This is the girl who refused to go to sleep until I finished telling my bedtime story. As in, lay awake until the small hours staring at me, locked in the desire to know what happens. ‘I have to know the ending, Mama,’ she’d whisper. ‘I can wait all night.’ I never told her though. She’s not the only one who sticks to her guns.

It's stubbornness that has got her into this mess. That, and her chinless wonder of a father. Always running around after his boss, hoping that some of the power will rub off on him. I think I loved him once. But then we had daughters and he showed his true colours. What kind of a father lets his eldest child marry a monster, a monster with a long sword, ready to swipe her head from her body? I think I’m going to be sick.

his desire for vengeance took wing. All women were guilty in his eyes, and so every night he took a young virgin for his bride, and every morning he had her executed by his royal vizier. After one thousand women had been killed, the only person willing to be his wife was the daughter of the vizier.

She’s not dead. I don’t know why, but she has been granted a reprieve. Dunyazad came back home in a great rush, talking fast but saying little. She’s been in a hurry since the day she was born. Maybe second children are always like that. Rushing to keep up with her whirlwind of a sister.

Dunny would not share how they did it. How she survived. I mean, why would I have any interest? Don’t mind me. I’m only their mother. I only carried them inside me for months, through back pain and vomit and haemorrhoids. I only fed them from my own body for years. How could it matter to me what happens to my children? My children, who are really pieces of my heart walking around outside my body.

The King’s new bride appeared ready to meet her fate. She had flowers woven into her hair. Her only request for her husband was that her sister, Dunyazad, should be allowed to accompany her into the bedchamber. And just before bed, Dunyazad looked up at her sister and asked her, as arranged, to tell

A month has passed, and the secret is out. Everyone wanted to know how the latest bride held her husband’s interest. They wanted to know how she kept his murderous intentions at bay. She is very beautiful, my daughter, but so were the nine hundred and ninety-nine women who went before her. They were the jewels of the kingdom, but beautiful faces could not stand in the way of his misogyny. Neither could tears or pleading. Every single one went to his bed a bride and left the room in a shroud.

It's always women, isn’t it? That beast loved his wife, and she betrayed him, and now all women must pay. What is worse is that it’s my husband who is responsible for the beheading. I told him that he would be judged for this, and I was right (as always). Now it’s our own daughter whose head is on the chopping block. The only thing preventing her demise are the stories.

her a story. The bride spun a tale full of adventure and magic. The King was rapt. For the first time in a long time, he felt a flicker of connection. He was desperate to know how the story ended. But his bride stopped, yawning, and said that it was time for her to sleep. And so

My mother passed the stories to me, and I passed them to our girls. If the purpose of a bedtime story is to calm one’s children before sleep, then these tales were entirely unsuited to the task. Genies and treasures, voyages and sailors, marriages and magic. And always, always a cliffhanger. That’s how you make children behave. You dangle a story in front of them, and you make the ending conditional on their comportment. Apparently it works on kings too.

I lay between them, my two girls, their long hair spread across their pillows. And I told them, ‘As long as you have a story, you can never be lost. We are the stories that we tell.’ My eldest chewed a fingernail. She was always so serious.

the King agreed to stay her execution for one more day, so that she could finish her story. The next night, she finished her telling, and he thought it had been worth it. And his bride started a new story, even better than the first. Once again, she stopped just before the end. The King had no choice. He

A month, three months, half a year, a year… Nobody is much interested in the king’s new bride anymore. Even my husband seems to think that the problem is resolved. He strides around the palace whistling, swinging his arms in time with his tuneless music. Only I wake every morning with my breath caught in my throat. I exhale unsteadily when Dunny comes and tells me that my eldest has survived another day.

I am not permitted any contact with my child. I suppose she is our queen now. But rules are made to be broken. Dunny carries a note for me and I offer my suggestions. ‘He might like Aladdin.’ ‘Don’t forget the Hunchback’s Tale.’ ‘Tell him the story of the Barber. You could keep that one going for a week.’

let her live for one more day, and then another, and then another. Her stories grew grander in scale. Sometimes one tale could last for several days. They kept going in this manner for many nights, the King, his storyteller bride, and her sister, until,

I can’t breathe. My hair has turned white. I eat sparingly. Jewels that used to shine at my throat and my wrists are tarnished and lacklustre. My husband says he will replace me with another wife, one who befits his status. Let him. I can live out my days without him. Except that it has been a thousand and one nights, and my well has run dry. I have no stories left. And if my daughter is killed, every part of me will die too.

after one thousand and one nights, the King realised that he had fallen in love with his bride and her stories. And so they lived together for many years, Scheherazade and her husband, and created stories of their own.

He has permitted her to live. Our illustrious leader. She no longer has to share stories for her survival. The courtiers say that they have never seen him so in love. His eyes shine as he takes her hand in his.

But my child sparkles less brightly. She seems depleted. Her curiosity has evaporated now that she understands the way of the world. Survival is what’s important. Perhaps that is why Dunny has chosen to marry that swine’s vicious brother. Two daughters wed to monsters who could destroy them with a nod of the head, if they were so inclined. Is this supposed to be a happy ending?