The Princess watched as the palace estate she had once known as home was reduced to nothing but rubble. The tree that she had climbed and fallen from, the kitchens that she’d stolen food from, the stone square where she had witnessed a thief’s gruesome execution - all these memories, along with the physical structures themselves, crumbled alike into a heap of hazy dust. It was not even the kind of dust that dreamily settled as a fine layer; rather, it was the kind that went straight into one’s eyes and blinded them.

Obscured from the invaders’ eyes by the now-tattered curtains on her window, the Princess could not see the one that she was truly concerned about. However, she could clearly hear the deafening cannonfire resounding from that area. In horror, she rushed out from her haven, not caring that she still wore the robe that cost more than two villages combined. Trees, arches, tiles, bridges all flew in a blur past her as she steadily gained ground. In the distance, she could see, to her relief, that the Iron Pillar still stood tall. Then why did it seem to tilt suddenly?

Running closer, she realized that the enemy’s cannonfire had finally worked: the Pillar had been shaken from its foundations and was slowly falling to the ground. Screaming, paying no heed to the enemy soldiers who now told her to surrender and step away, she ran right upto the tall wrought-iron column and hugged it with all her strength. It was “their” column after all, her and her father’s, and she could never forget the sheer bliss and joy, so rare for a King of his glory, on his noble face as they together watched the ornate Iron Pillar being forged. His promise of standing as strong for her and the kingdom as the Iron Pillar flashed through her mind. “No mind now,” thought the Princess, for she knew that her father no longer breathed. As the Pillar continued to fall with a heart-rending creaking, she closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable. Instead of falling on hard ground, though, the shock of cold water closed in around her as the Pillar fell straight into the palace gardens’ lake right behind it.

As the last bubbles of air escaped, the only thoughts dreamily floating in the Princess’ mind were that of her father, the Pillar, and a rare piece of peace.

Even as her body became more limp, the thoughts began floating out like shining threads of silk, swirling around the Pillar and the girl clinging to it. As if sensing that there was no longer much hope for the girl, the ribbons instead embraced the Pillar, binding around it protectively like satin ribbons. The Pillar began to rust, but it was this rust that the ribbons bound to its surface, crafting an impenetrable shield.

Three weeks later, the Sultan stood in front of this very pillar, considering his conquests and all that had happened along the way. He still remembered how his soldiers had found a richly-dressed girl still clinging to the Pillar that he had ordered them to pull out of the lake, and how he had angrily ordered the fearful, superstitious men to bring it back to his central kingdom in Old Delhi. Along the way, the Pillar seemed unnaturally light for being a solid-wrought-iron piece, making the men even more afraid of its “powers.” The girl had resembled his daughter, after all, yet he pinned it to the residual guilt in his mind for drawing such irrational connections.

The Sultan, lost in his thoughts, reached out and pressed his palm to the pillar. Immediately, he withdrew it back as if burnt. Looking at his hand, he saw nothing, yet looking at the pillar, he could see a faint outline of his palm slowly fading away. Barely visible, thin, silvery ribbons curling around the column vanished into the air, as if with a sigh. The Sultan angrily turned away from the Pillar, vowing to return the next day to prove that it had just been a figment of his imagination. He could not wait until this iron nail rusted into a pile of dust.

Over the next decade, though, this pattern continued. He touched the Pillar, only to draw away in pain. Each time, the very same ribbons appeared and disappeared. He ordered a mosque to be built right behind the Pillar to mock its origins and serve as a testament of his war exploits. He even ordered a cannonball to strike at the towering beam; yet, even this plan was thwarted when his courtiers nervously whispered in his ear that the mosque would be destroyed while the Pillar would barely suffer a scratch. On top of all this, a black handprint was found seared into the Sultan’s skin the next morning, every morning, every year. Most horrifying of all: the Pillar never seemed to rust, even a hair-width deep. The fearful courtiers and subjects suggested wild ideas of curses and dark magic. The Sultan’s health declined rapidly, and it only seemed like a matter of time until he drew his last breath. Meanwhile, the sight of his beloved daughter, Razia, began to burn into his mind just as much as the handprint did on his skin, for she resembled the girl clinging to the Pillar all those years ago in every way. Of all his heirs, Razia alone had the adroit decision-making and critical thinking skills needed in a successful ruler, and the Sultan made sure to include her in all administrative discourse.

Lying on his deathbed, with his flesh nearly burnt away, he could think of no one more fit to succeed him than Razia. “Fitting,” he thought bitterly, finally realizing how the irony was his final punishment, a final revenge from the kingdoms he had invaded. He lay in death exactly as he had made countless other proud Kings fall to their demise, and now, that grief-stricken Princess clinging to the Pillar, whose face haunted him each time he looked at that column, had come back as his own Razia to rule his kingdom forever.

With the Sultan’s last breath, the shimmering ribbons vanished from the Pillar with a sigh, their task accomplished.

Today, the Pillar has gradually begun to corrode, but the Sultan’s grand palaces and mosques will crumble away into dust long before this “iron nail” sees the slightest chink in its shield of rust…