Am I a Woman, Am I a Bird of Prey

I. Front-hanging brocade sari with pictorial borders

Besra was a spoil of war. Yet His Eminence gave me clear instructions to adorn her in extravagance, as befitting the newest concubine of the Jafran Empire’s court.

I gilded the aanchal of her inaugural sari with the symbolic bird of her backwater village—the besra, a wild raptor too many such common folk named their offspring after. Another trophy to commemorate His Eminence’s latest conquest. Golden zari wove hundreds of hawkish glares through blue silk.

One evening, she returned to my atelier alone, presumably for her choli fitting. But when I retrieved my tape measure, she shook her head.

“Please understand,” she murmured, “I cannot wear this. Ornamental iconography maligns the avian spirit my people revere.”

I rankled at her insolence. “It’s a masterpiece of craft!”

“Be that as it may—I don’t possess the form for it.” She paced across my wall of mirrors with an awkward gait. Where the cascading pleats should have shifted iridescently, fabric bunched around her figure in arrhythmic stutters.

Loathe as I was to agree with her, she certainly appeared less than worthy of Jafrani elegance in that outfit. A clear dereliction of my sartorial duty.

I couldn’t sign my name to this abomination. “What are you capable of wearing?”

II. Jama fastened with mimetic kamarbandh

I came to understand that Besra’s commune was less gender-structured than our society. Besra had never learned the traditionally feminine graces expected of Jafrani women—children climbed trees (for a “bird’s-eye view”), dove from great heights, hunted food with pairs of tri-pronged spears. I sympathised, to some extent, as the imperial darji myself—too consumed by art to settle with family and propagate my House’s title. My father lamented the lack of heirs. Yet my legacy would be immortalised in museums and the tombs of emperors.

Descendants perished.

Over the next several days and sleepless nights, I stitched Besra a flared, floor-length coat that would forgive their lumbering movements. Around the waist, I cinched a sturdy strip of quilted cotton sewn with real feathers I had collected over the years—royal peacock tail, speckled female koyal, striped pheasant. Of course, none from birds of prey, but still they stunned in their emulation of the besra.

Besra stroked the finished sash adoringly. “It’s beautiful.”

“Obviously.”

In a career lauded with prestigious awards and accolades for previous projects, this strange new piece was my favourite. Using three-dimensional materials diverged from the repetitive norms of Jafran’s current trends. I craved this experimentation with style, a freedom of variation that had first drawn me to dressmaking in my youth. Since the empire’s focus had shifted to expansion, however, the need for cultural cohesion—a pillar of Jafrani prosperity and success—demanded uniformity in apparel.

Once adorned, I ushered Besra to the banquet hall. Celebrations over the recent conquest had already begun.

A hush fell over the crowd as they noticed the concubine’s distinctive outfit. The throng cracked open, His Eminence striding toward us.

Besra met His stare. He studied their expression, refusing to let His gaze drop to what they wore. Then He reached forward and ripped the kamarbandh from their body.

My heart sank as His fist crushed the feathers. Filaments drifted to the floor in straggles, their shafts snapped and stitches split.

My precious work, destroyed in a mere moment.

His sharpened nails and heavy imperial rings had torn Besra’s skin. Blood soaked the frayed white edges of the jama and stained His fingertips.

Before either could speak, a fanfare erupted outside. His Eminence jerked around. Through the open windows, we watched a swarm of captive besra birds released into the air, a performance honouring His triumph over Besra’s people.

His eyes slid to Besra. He pulled a pistol from His pocket and pointed it out of a window. One of the birds fell from the sky as the loud bang reverberated through the palace.

That night, Besra brought its body to my atelier. They must have snuck outside in the darkness to retrieve it.

“Please. You’re my only friend.”

Something twinged in my chest. Imperial court intrigues didn’t foster genuine relationships; fickle alliances were quick to break. Even His Eminence rose to the throne only after His elder brothers died mysteriously.

But Besra and I, we had created something groundbreaking together. Even with just the scraps remaining, the two of us would always remember its significance.

I took the carcass, wondering how to respect Besra’s feelings despite not understanding them at all.

III. Besra body suit

The following day, Besra was to attend the closing ceremonial feast, and in appropriate garb. I worked overnight to imbue as much spirit back into the bird’s body as my artistry could manage.

When Besra saw the suit and cried, I thought I had upset them—until they began to draw it over their legs. I had cleaned out the insides, expanding the cavity with patches of shade-matched cloth. I would need to adjust it further, of course—there were gaping shape mismatches. Yet as Besra fastened the buttons over their body, the outline of the bird seemed precisely fitted to Besra themself.

Disgruntled yells punctured the festivities upon our arrival. Guards pointed weapons, then ducked quickly for cover when Besra unfolded their wings and took flight.

His Eminence aimed His revolver.

But there was no twine lead to restrain the bird this time, no cage to trap it with. The bullet missed.

Besra soared, dove, and slashed their talons into the emperor. Insides spilled everywhere. Their steely beak pecked through His meagre remains.

My foot slipped in strewn guts.

Amber eyes turned on me.

It should have frightened me, sickened me, to witness such carnage. I didn’t even know if Besra would recognise our friendship in their new form.

But if Besra, self-assured in their movements at last, were to dismember me before flying to their freedom—what rightful tribute to the bird’s true legacy that would be. A divine homage to their people that had come alive from the skill of my own hands. Something I could never have hoped to represent with my mere embroidery when we first met.

Facing down my magnum opus, I stood grounded in the knowledge that its legend would outlive me for generations to come.

© 2025 Ayida Shonibar

Ayida Shonibar (she/they) writes dark and wistful speculative fiction about misfits, monsters, mischief-makers. A Lambda Literary Fellow and previous We Need Diverse Books mentee, they’ve also received support from the Horror Writers Association and Dream Foundry for their work. Spanning genres and age categories, their short stories, essays, and poetry appear in various publications. You can find more information at ayidashonibar.com.