No air. Can’t breathe. NO AIR. 

Leila closed her eyes and counted to ten. Shallow breaths. Slowly. And then slower. Then opened them again.

She was still there. In the musty room.

Dust particles zig-zagged. A lonely beam of sunlight sliced through the darkness.  

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” the man behind the desk asked. His fleshy face beet red and concerned.

Leila shook her head and forced her lips to turn up at the corners. The man nodded and went back to shuffling piles of paper and sending a swirl of dust in a haphazard dance that somehow made its escape through a crack in the murky window. The only window in the fusty office, and it happened to be sealed shut. Her eyes darted toward the door, again. 

Clearing his throat, he began the drone again. “The last will and testament of…”

The air zapped right out of the room again. But she pursed her lips and breathed in and out through her nose. The effort distracted her and she sat through the rest of the reading of her parents’ will.

Only yesterday she had been summoned to this so-called legal firm, Bryce and Whitaker. Her father had been a man of few resources and that he would have had anything to leave her after all the many debts were finally paid off, took her by surprise. But here she was. Perhaps it was out of curiosity or perhaps she hoped it had all been one huge mistake. That her parents had not been killed in a car crash after all, and that it was just a case of mistaken identity.

Early that morning, she had taken a bus to the east end of London and to the building that housed the law firm. It had been a single room on the top floor of a run-down building. She had to haul herself up six flight of stairs – the elevator being out of order.

The man behind the desk seemed like an extension of his surroundings: old and broken-down. However, his face had lit up when she walked in as if he had been awaiting her arrival all day.

“I’m not at all sure if I have the right place—Bryce and Whitaker?” Leila had said, unfolding the letter she retrieved from her handbag.

“Yes, yes, do come in. Miss..?” he had hurried to escort her to a chair that had seen better days. 

“I am Leila Brown; I received your letter…”

“Ah! Miss Brown, I’ve been expecting you.” He had rummaged through the desk. Within seconds he had pulled out the correct file and had adjusted his reading glasses. 

He had begun with a very rehearsed introduction. Nevertheless, the ample folds around the jowls of his face had become dotted with beads of sweat.

The man was saying now that he had had the privilege of being her parents’ solicitor and had been very distressed to hear of their tragic end. 

So it was not one huge misunderstanding. The car accident had happened. They were really gone. Both of them.

“Your dad was an old friend of mine and he entrusted me with some papers and letters to give to you when—well—when and if both your parents were incapacitated.” He stopped suddenly, sympathy in his watery blue eyes. 

Leila swallowed hard. “I understand, Mr Whitaker.” Only just then remembering his name.  

How could she ever understand though? One moment her life had been seemingly perfect. She was fulfilling a dream. Her final semester at college, her graduation mere weeks away and both her parents finally happy… 

Mr Whitaker launched himself off his chair sending another cloud of dust in a chaotic scramble.   

She stared at the brown envelope he held out to her, confused by the gesture.

“These letters, I understand are from your mother,” he said as he jerked the envelop toward her again, “and disclose some interesting information about your maternal hereditary; a few official documents from the country of your mother’s birth, and documents outlining a tidy sum of money from an insurance policy your father bequeathed you.” 

He wheezed between each phrase.  It was useless trying to stop her hand from shaking as she reached out to take it. 

Mr Whitaker started then stopped again. “I am sorry, Miss Brown—I haven’t handled this with the sensitivity it deserves. Have I?”

 He reminded her of her father in that moment; lost for words when words were all he had to offer. Leila shook her head and smiled weakly at the man, feeling an absurd need to comfort him. 

A few hours later, seated at her favourite bench in the park across from her parents’ apartment, she built up the courage to read the letters her mother had left her. 

A familiar spot, it was where she and her father had escaped to when her mother wasn’t feeling well. Grayson Brown would attempt to make her forget about her mother’s episodes, as they had called it, by treating her to an ice-cream and regaling her with stories of great leaders and rulers. All the while averting the subject of her mother’s frequent lapses into depression. 

During those moments she had wished he would make everything better again. But her father had never been able to follow through with the hard stuff.     

Carefully unfolding the letter, Leila recognised her mother’s neat cursive script. She closed her eyes and imagined Aranya Brown’s hauntingly beautiful face. Instantly transported to the past, Aranya’s signature jasmine scent wafted through Leila’s memories as she read one of the letters.

My dearest Leila

I want to start this letter with what is and will always be in my heart and that is I love you. I know I may not have been the mother you needed me to be but know that I have wanted to. If you are reading this letter, it means that I am no more and I have not told you of my real identity and for that matter, your real identity.

I was born Princess Aranya Jodhi of Oudh, a little kingdom in the Himalayan mountains. My parents were the Maharajah and Maharani Jodhi and my brother and I had been the heirs to the kingdom. We had been a relatively successful kingdom with vast tracks of land and loyal citizens. 

On my 16th birthday I had become betrothed to a wealthy friend of my father. I had never met him but had been told that on my 21st birthday I would be married to him as was tradition. 

I had accepted this but a year before the wedding I met your father. It was perhaps inevitable that I would fall madly in love with him. He was handsome, intelligent and different. He had come to my tiny part of the world to do a story on our traditionally-run country and he stole my heart. My parents had refused 

to accept his proposal and so we did what we thought had been our only way to be together; we had eloped. 

Needless to say, my parents had been furious and they disowned me. Your father brought me here to England and at first our love had been all I needed, but with each day my heart had grown heavier with longing for my home and my family. Then you had come along and I was thrilled to have a family of my own. I had wanted to share the news with my parents and brother and I had sent numerous letters and pictures over the years but they had all been returned unopened. 

I had learnt of my brother’s tragic death from a newspaper article your father brought home. Your father had found out only because he had to proof-read the article. I had been devastated. 

My brother, Arman, and I had been close as little children. And I could not even pay my respects or mourn accordingly. I became bitter and angry. More so when my mother eventually had written to me two years later to inform me that my father was dying but he had refused to see me unless I left your father and came back to Oudh. It was not something I could do. I had not been at his side when he too died. 

 If there was anything I have learnt through my pain it is that I have to live with the decisions I made, and in choosing my own path I have lost a lot and caused a lot of pain. I am sorry to let you know of your heritage in this way but in my own way, I have been trying to protect you from the truth. 

You have a right to choose your own path my darling but be aware of my mistakes and choose wisely. Soon your grandmother will make an attempt to 

contact you because you are the only surviving heir and she would want you to take up your responsibilities as princess and eventually queen. That decision will be yours to make, just make the decision you know you can live with. 

I wish I had more to offer you but my bitterness made me less of a mother to you. But do remember that I have always loved you, and I have always been proud of you. I know you will be the woman I never could be. 

With all my heart, 

Your mother

Aranya Brown