“Departure from the Palace
Topkapi Palace – February 27, 1798
The palace gardens were wrapped in an unusual silence that morning. The brisk wind, heralding the arrival of March, brushed angrily against the unopened tulip buds, while the only sound echoing through Topkapi's stone courtyards was the steady rhythm of soldiers' footsteps.
Nefrise Sultan walked with heavy but resolute steps. Behind her were several chests wrapped in silk, and beside her were her three most trusted companions: her handmaiden Fidan, her mentor Zahide Hatun, and her protector, Ömer Pasha. Her eyes took in the domes and corners of the palace she had spent her life in—for the last time. She did not weep, nor did she look back. Her departure was a necessity, but her pride stood tall.
At the far end of the courtyard, Sultan Selim III awaited her. A rare sorrow clouded his face, and in his hand, a final token from her late mother—a delicate silk handkerchief. This farewell was not only a matter of state, but a mourning of blood and bond.
"The walls of this palace could not protect you, Nefrise…
Now I send you away, not from them, but from my heart.
It is not easy, but sometimes, to keep our loved ones alive, we must keep them distant.
My eyes will always follow you. This handkerchief no longer belongs to your mother; it is now the emblem of your fate.
Go… but never forget, the shadow of this dynasty will always be at your back."
Nefrise gave no reply. She simply bowed her head in solemn respect.
Dilruba Sultan stood a few steps behind, unable to hide her tears. Beside her were her son, Prince Mustafa, and her young daughter, Princess Gülşah. Prince Mustafa looked silently at Nefrise. In his gaze lingered unsaid emotions, unfinished possibilities.
At the other corner of the courtyard stood Şehnaz Sultan. Her gaze was cold and envious. Her daughter, Yasemin, watched Nefrise too, with the faintest trace of satisfaction curling her lips.
Ömer Pasha stepped forward and bowed slightly.
"Everything is ready, my Sultan."
Nefrise lifted her eyes briefly to the sky. As a lone seagull glided across Istanbul's pale morning, she spoke a single sentence:
"Then let us go."
No one spoke behind her. Because everyone knew:
This was not an end—it was a beginning.
---
March 3, 1798 – Open Seas
With the first light of dawn, the ship had set sail. The horizon slowly painted itself in the deepest hues of crimson, while the navy-blue sea and the pale yellow sky blended into one another. The crashing of waves against wood added a powerful rhythm to the stillness of morning.
Nefrise Sultan walked alone on the deck. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon; the wind played with her cloak, and her emerald-stitched dark robe glimmered faintly in the light. Her beauty was understated, but striking. Yet what truly drew the eye was not her appearance—it was her presence. As if the ship, even the world itself, revolved around her.
Ömer Pasha watched her from afar. As he did every morning.
He had first seen her in the palace courtyard. She walked slowly, gracefully—hands clasped, head held high, eyes filled with a quiet peace that veiled a storm. From that day on, her silhouette never left his mind. Over time, his admiration turned into silent devotion, and that devotion buried itself deep into a love he never dared voice.
She seemed unaware. Or if she was, she gave no sign.
When the ship swayed, a few soldiers panicked. Ömer Pasha immediately took charge, his voice calm but firm as he gave orders. Once order was restored, his eyes sought Nefrise again. She was still on deck—completely unshaken.
He approached her and spoke with a slight bow:
"My Sultan… The wind is rising. Perhaps you should return to your cabin. This weather may affect your health."
Nefrise turned her gaze from the waves to him. Her voice was calm:
"I'll stay a little longer. Then I shall rest."
Ömer Pasha bowed slightly. He paused for a brief moment, then stepped back without another word. Nefrise remained alone—by choice.
The sky was cloudy. The waves lapped gently against the ship's sides. And the open seas awaited them in silence.
---
May 4, 1798 – Open Seas
The sun cast its first light gently upon the water. As the sky turned from gray to blue, the deck of the Ottoman ship was quiet yet alert with preparation.
Nefrise Sultan had awoken in her cabin. Fidan patiently brushed her hair, while Zahide Hatun laid out an elegant gown she had carefully chosen from the chest.
"The sea is calmer today, my Sultan," Zahide Hatun said softly. "The distant seems closer, somehow."
Nefrise looked into the mirror. Her eyes were not tired—but they were deep. Every moment of this journey seemed to tear something from within her.
"What we call 'distant' begins within, my teacher," she said with quiet clarity. "We are only changing places."
Fidan lowered her head slightly. To her, the Sultan's words always carried more than they seemed. But this morning, Nefrise was not talkative. She dressed in silence—a silence not born of worry, but of readiness.
Before leaving the cabin, she glanced out the window. No land was yet in sight, but she knew—they were close. Today marked the end of all she left behind, and the beginning of all that lay ahead.
She stepped onto the deck, Zahide and Fidan close behind. She walked with the dignity and composure of a true sultana, nearing the spot where Ömer Pasha stood, having just completed the morning inspection.
He bowed slightly upon seeing her.
"My Sultan, all is as you commanded," he said. "Final checks are complete before we reach shore."
Nefrise nodded. The wind tugged at her hair as her gaze fixed on a hazy dot at the horizon: the shores of India.
"Is a new world hidden there, Pasha?" she asked suddenly, her eyes unmoving.
Ömer Pasha met her inquisitive gaze with seriousness and quiet respect.
"If it is, my Sultan… then it will be a more just world with you in it."
Nefrise turned her eyes to him, pausing for a moment. A slight curve formed at her lips, but she said nothing. Then she walked on. Ömer Pasha watched her go, just a moment longer.
---
May 5, 1798 – Port of Surat, India
The sun had not yet fully risen, and the sky was dressed in a soft pink hue. The Ottoman ship gently docked at the shores of Surat, and those waiting on the deck shared a mutual feeling—curiosity, and foreignness.
The welcoming party had already gathered at the pier. Representatives from noble Indian families stood in robes made of exquisite fabrics, their turbans adorned with precious stones, their stances regal and poised—prepared for the mysterious woman from the Ottoman Empire. Hidden glances peeked through the shadows, eager to see who would step off that ship.
Nefrise Sultan emerged onto the deck with effortless grace. Behind her were Fidan and Zahide Hatun. Fidan stole glances at the crowd, while Zahide Hatun whispered prayers under her breath.
Ömer Pasha stepped forward first, descending the gangway. He offered a polite bow to the waiting delegation, then turned and extended a hand to Nefrise.
"My Sultan," he said gently but clearly. "Watch your step."
Without hesitation, Nefrise placed her hand in his and descended. She paused midway, surveying the crowd before her. The adorned gathering instantly realized—this was no ordinary sultana. Her jeweled gown shimmered in the morning light, but even more radiant was her bearing—one that silently proclaimed: This woman ruled with her mind.
An elder at the front of the group bowed slightly, hands joined respectfully.
Indian Envoy (with Arabic accent):
"The land of Hind greets the noble Sultan of the Ottomans. It is a great honor to welcome you on behalf of our most esteemed families."
Nefrise (nodding graciously, her gaze calm):
"We have come to bring the justice and elegance of the Ottoman realm. We thank you for your hospitality."
Fidan followed carefully behind. Zahide Hatun stepped onto the earth with eyes filled with the wisdom of the past.
Ömer Pasha looked at Nefrise for a moment. There was neither triumph nor fear in her eyes. Only determined silence.
The morning breeze swelled suddenly, and with the rustling of sails, India had officially received Nefrise Sultan.