2024 Flash Fiction Award Winner: Rikha Sharma Rani

The Bargain 

The Jhelum River starts at the foothills of the Himalayas, then winds through the disputed  Kashmir Valley—first the Indian-administered side, then the Pakistani—, ending 200 kilometers  from the Pakistani city of Lahore. It is here, along the banks of the Jhelum, that Alexander the  Great, having vanquished the Greeks and Persians, was almost defeated. 

Fresh off the gutting of armies in Egypt and the Middle East, he’d set his sights on Hindoostan. And he met his first test along the matty shores of the Jhelum, called the Hydaspes  back then, where his storied cavalry faced off against the Indian king Porus of Paurava, whose  army brandished a startling weapon: 200 war elephants, their tusks coated in poison. 

There was a magnificent clash of tusks and hooves. A thousand of Alexander’s men  impaled on the tusks of Porus’s mighty elephants. But the Macedonians pressed on and,  eventually, the animals panicked. They retreated backward, trampling their own cavalry  underfoot, allowing Alexander’s men to encircle Porus’s infantry. When it was over, Alexander  was so impressed with the Indians’ pluck that he bestowed on Porus the title of tributary king of  Paurava. But his soldiers were spent. They refused to venture further. The Battle at Hydaspes  marked Alexander’s first and last campaign in Asia. He turned back toward Europe, fell ill, and  died in Babylon soon after.  

Some of his men, enchanted by the beauty of the Valley, stayed behind to administer the  late Alexander’s new dominion. They set up camp next to the Jhelum’s aquamarine waters and  traded their bloodied phalanxes for seeds of potato and maize. It was a quiet and pleasant life,  except for one problem: there were no women on the plains.  

They made do at first, making lovers of former comrades and taking brute satisfaction  from the horses. But they soon grew bored and ornery. The fleshy skin of Kashmiri peaches, the flaming red of saffron fibers, even the shiny curve of a mare’s back reminded the soldiers of the mistresses they’d left behind. Desire coursed through that camp like a fever. It was during this lusty plague that a nomad woman named Daria Kaur Khan was seen  meandering along the eastern bank of the river. A merciless heat radiated from the plains, and so  the woman waded waist-deep into the river, her green salwar floating around her thin frame,  giving her the appearance of a lotus. Every so often she stopped, cupped a handful of water and  let the droplets trickle over her face.  

The soldiers buzzed with excitement. One, unable to restrain himself, darted forward,  only to be tackled by another, who stepped over the first and sprinted toward the river, undoing  his trousers as he ran. Two others ran after him, then two more, until a dozen men stood hungrily  at the water’s edge. The woman, seeing the men charging toward her, retreated to the opposing  bank.  

“We have run alongside stallions,” one sneered. “Do you think we cannot catch you?”  “We are representatives of His Highness Alexander the Great,” said another, stepping  into the water toward her. “Will you not serve your king?”  

Daria looked with dread at the men, frothing with impatience, but gathered her courage  and, meeting the man’s gaze, spat, “Alexander is dead. Shall I lay with his rotting corpse?”  A few of the men snickered, but in truth they were disappointed. This woman was not the  storied beauty they had heard about. Her face was pleasant, but creased with sun, and her hair  was matted and parched. Still, she was a woman and not a horse. 

“By sundown you shall have lain with every man in this camp,” the soldier said, lowering  his eyes to her breasts. 

“Perhaps,” Daria answered, wringing droplets of water from her salwar with trembling  hands, “I can make you a more pleasing offer.”  

They could take their satisfaction from her, and soon tire of her, she told the soldiers. Or they could allow her safe passage and she would return with others. Dozens of women more  beautiful than she. Women from the Vale with eyes the color of the Jhelum, breasts taut like the  peaks of the Himalayas. The men whistled and hooted and told Daria to return in three days. If  she broke her word, the soldiers warned, they would scour the plains until they found her.  

Daria visited every village in the Vale, told the prettiest peasant women of a clandestine  Arabian prince camped out secretly on the banks of the Jhelum, seeking a bride of Kashmiri  stock. If they wished for an audience, they should go to the east bank of the river three days  hence to do their washing, and wait for the prince’s arrival. Three dozen girls went to the river  bank, and were pounced upon by a dozen ravenous soldiers. Their commander rewarded Daria  with a nugget of gold and told her that, for every new flock she brought to the river, she would  receive another.  

And so it is that Daria Kaur Khan became the most notorious madam in all of Asia.

Rikha Sharma Rani is an Oakland, Calif.-based writer hailing from Toronto, Canada—which is to say, she is really, really nice. Keanu, The Weeknd and, yes, even Bieber are amazing, and she will not hear otherwise. A former journalist, Rikha’s writing has appeared in The Atlantic, The New York Times Magazine, The Washington Post, The Los Angeles Times, and others. Her COVID-era profile of the head of the country’s largest nurses’ union helped earn her subject a place on Time Magazine’s list of “100 Most Influential People of 2020.” Her journalism has been recognized by the San Francisco Press Club, the American Society for Journalists and Authors, and the Milwaukee Press Club. 

4 July 2025