‘He claimed she was a goddess,’ they said. ‘Maybe he knows better and can help?’
The priest indeed knew a way. But when the king heard what it was, his mind boggled.
‘What? I can’t let my daughter do that!’
But the priest told him it was the only way. ‘I’ve known this affliction before. It has been similarly treated in our ancient texts.’
‘But you said she was a goddess.’
‘She is yet to turn into one.’
To the king’s surprise and relief, the princess agreed to the priest’s proposal immediately.
What was the priest’s cure, you ask?
It was sordid, oh, and painful.
Every day, until the day she was to turn sixteen, the princess was to sleep with a snake on her bed. The priest would give her a piece of magical root to keep in her mouth. If the snake bit her, the root would save her. But that would work only once, so in order to stay alive, she needed to befriend the snake; she couldn’t harm it. For this, she had to dive deep into herself and connect with her divine powers.
And if she lived until her birthday, which was twelve days afar, she’d be and look sixteen forever. She’ll be blessed with immeasurable wealth and fame and be the envy of all the world’s women.
And not just that, the snake would live forever too. Youthful and fertile, it would spread and multiply its kind in the world. This was true for anyone who would sleep with the princess henceforth. Immeasurable fame, health and wealth would follow.
It was a fantastic cure, too strange to be believed, but the princess insisted they must do it, and so they did.
Thus, on the chosen night, the princess left a weeping mother and an anxious father to be on her own in a room at the far corner of the palace. She lay down on a hardwood bed with food and water by her side. The priest, after muttering a small prayer, released a cobra from a jewelled sack into the room.
The doors closed.
On the twelfth day, everyone assembled eagerly outside. The anxious king and queen, who had hardly slept the previous week, asked their daughter to open the door.
When after prolonged calling and knocking she did not do so, they grew agitated.
‘She’s dead,’ her mother cried. ‘We should have never let her do this!’
‘Maybe she’s sleeping,’ the priest replied, wringing his hands, a thin layer of sweat shining on his bald head.
‘We’ve made enough noise to wake up the entire kingdom,’ the king snapped.
‘Why don’t we break open the door?’ the priest suggested.
The king ordered the guards to do so. The queen started to chant in a stupor.
‘We should have never let her… what a crazy idea… something has surely happened…’
The king glared at the priest, who had begun to shiver. He asked the guards to hurry up.
Finally, the door broke open.
The king and the queen ran inside. Looked around frantically.
The room was empty, the bed neatly made, the food and water untouched, the place as they had left it.
But without the princess or the snake.
‘Where is she?’
‘Where is the princess?’
Then they heard.
Loud, raucous laughter. Cackling, coming from outside.
In slow steps, they walked to the only window in the room. It overlooked the palace gardens, a secluded corner, visible only from the room’s window.
The princess!
They saw her!
There she was, perched on the branch of the kadamba tree. Dressed in black, smiling wide, her face more beautiful than they had ever seen. Black kohl round her eyes, black dye on her feet. The crescent moon gleamed brighter in the middle of her forehead.
But oh!
What was that?
Snakes were flying out of her hair! Coiled around the tree’s branches, they flamed in and out.
The king and the queen screamed in alarm. They entreated their daughter to come back inside.
The princess laughed again. ‘I’m a goddess now,’ she cried.
Then with another loud chortle, she threw herself off the tree and flew into the sky. Her black robe flapped behind her, and she seemed to them like a big black bird riding into a storm.
Praise the goddess! Praise the goddess! Praise the goddess! Her subjects below sang.
Darya realized she’d sat stock-still the entire time she’d been reading, her body tense as if braced against a beating. By the end of it, she realized she had goosebumps. The book had more such outlandish tales: each time a woman turned to a witch or a fairy to save herself. The one she’d read was the longest of them.
What the hell was that story though?
And why did Jasmine think Darya had to read it?
Breaking News
Darya’s heart thudded like a drum in her chest as she ran up the stairs. Aaron had arrived before she had. He was already at the villa, in the terrace. He’d called and asked her to hurry home.
Darya was surprised. How had he done this? Had he asked Viktor or Debbie to let him in? They knew about him, of course. She had introduced him to them the last time Aaron had visited. If they had let him in, it was mighty nice of them. Or was it Veda who’d enabled this? Was she on the terrace too, with him?
Back in Goa, Aaron and Darya did this often: sat side by side on the beach at dusk and watched the colours of the setting sun slide and spill into the sea, glasses of wine in their hands. Today it was well past sunset, 8 p.m., the sky already a watery blue-black, and she was thrilled at the prospect of spending some time alone with him, to steal a few moments of intimacy and comfort.
Over the phone, Aaron’s voice had sounded animated, which was unusual.
What has he planned?
As soon as Darya’s feet landed on the shingly terrace floor, she saw it.
The table from her room had been brought up and placed at the centre; it was covered in plain red cloth. On it were a bottle of red wine and two goblets; a bunch of yellow roses stuffed into an empty sauce bottle; two covered steel saucepans; two white plastic plates; a bottle of water, and a freshly lit candle whose wick was doing a mad dance against the inky blue sky.
‘Holy mother of God,’ Darya whispered.
Then music.
The strains came from somewhere behind her. She stood frozen, listening.
He had brought his portable boom box and was playing Aerosmith—a song they both loved—‘I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing’.
She turned around.
Laughing lightly, he walked up to her, all six feet of him, with tousled hair, a disarming smile and legs that seemed to do ballet mid-air.
‘Darya,’ he said in a silky, cocky voice—his early-morning voice.
‘A-Aaron,’ Darya stuttered back.
Heart in her mouth, she watched as he went down on one knee. Reaching for his pocket, he took out an unmarked powder-blue box.
She stared at him wild-eyed.
Was it…?
Panic rose in her chest.
Aaron held up the box to her.
‘Well?’ he asked.
She stared at him. Then the box.
‘What is that?’ she whispered.
His smile grew wider at her nervousness.
‘What do you think?’ he asked, the dimple on his cheek trembling with barely controlled mirth. ‘So, what’s your answer?’
‘To what?’ Darya asked stupidly.
‘This.’ Aaron shook the box underneath her.
‘Aaron,’ she began. What was in that box? But he didn’t look serious, as he should have. Darya was confused. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s something you want,’ he replied. ‘You really, really want.’
‘What is it?’ Her voice cracked. It couldn’t be… he wasn’t thinking of… but it wasn’t possible! They’d never talked about it. And the box… it was the wrong kind.
And what did she really, really want? Did she want a proposal? She wasn’t
really sure. And surely it was too soon!
‘Darya, come back here,’ Aaron said, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Take it. Come on.’ He handed her the box. ‘Open it.’
‘How can I…? You need to!’ She gazed down at him, abashed and confused.
‘Open it,’ he said.
Hands shaking, she took the box from him and opened it. Then gasped in shock.
‘What the hell?’ She playfully slapped him as he got to his feet. He was grinning from ear to ear, obviously pleased with himself. ‘All the theatrics,’ she squealed. ‘All this for a…’ She took it out gingerly. ‘A weed pen.’ She looked at him accusingly. ‘You swine!’ She knew she was blushing furiously and willed herself to calm down.
‘Was I good or was I good?’ he teased. ‘Give it back if you don’t want it.’ He made a lunge towards her.
‘No way!’ She ducked, holding the pen out of his reach.
They laughed together. She hugged him tightly, her heart thudding against his body. She didn’t want Aaron to see that she had been shaking.
What if he had actually proposed? What would she have done?
‘But… what did you think I was doing?’ he asked, releasing her.
‘Nothing.’ She avoided meeting his eyes.
‘No, really, tell me,’ he teased.
‘Shut up.’ She swatted at him, then turned away quickly. ‘This is perfect!’ she said, admiring the coarse taupe texture of the pen in her hand. ‘Oolo is really so resourceful.’
Aaron nodded. ‘He got his pal in Mumbai to procure one for me.’ Oolo, or Alexander D’Penha, was someone they knew back in Goa, who often supplied them with experimental, not-yet-in-market products. ‘But remember, this is one-off,’ Aaron warned. ‘Only because you insisted.’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Darya replied dourly. Darya’s ex, Spandan, had catapulted her into a deadly addiction when they were together, and it was only after she’d broken up with him and moved to Goa that she’d managed to get over it and start afresh. Aaron had had a big role to play in that recovery. It was hard sometimes, especially at the end of a long day, when she craved a drag and a drink to take the edge off. And now back in Mumbai, she felt more tempted than ever. The city was where it had started and almost ended, taking her along with it.
The mind finds many excuses, Aaron had told her. Stem that right at the beginning.
Darya had learned to do just that.
‘I have something else for you,’ Aaron said. ‘Not as good as the other, but still something you can make use of.’ He reached into his pocket and took out an object wrapped in silver foil. He unwrapped it. ‘It’s a Chinese-made voice recorder,’ he explained. ‘Another of Oolo’s friends got it for me. You can wear it like a watch. It also tells the time.’
She took it from him and surveyed it. The watch had slim purple straps and a glossy black dial, massively out of proportion, and hence trendy. Oolo had told Aaron the Chinese had gotten a whiff of secret experiments at a global mobile phone company, where they were trying to create wearable technology for the wrist, a ‘super watch’ that could act as a phone, play music, measure heart rate and tell one’s GPS location. The Chinese didn’t have access to the exact code, so they’d tried to innovate. Hers was an early model. It could signal to one paired device, record audio for two hours, and also tell the wearer’s heart rate.
‘Is it because I don’t take notes in class and forget everything later?’ Darya asked wonderingly.
Aaron nodded.
Damn! She was choking up. ‘You have to teach me how to use it,’ she managed to say without her voice cracking. Aaron was so thoughtful, so kind. Why couldn’t she be nicer to him?
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Also, for all this effort.’ She gestured at the table. ‘How did you get in?’
‘Veda helped,’ he replied. ‘She went for a walk. To leave us alone, she said.’
‘In case we need to use the room later?’ Darya asked, cocking an eyebrow.
‘She didn’t say that. Wipe off that smirk, Darya,’ Aaron scolded.
She giggled.
‘Smoke some and let’s eat,’ he said.
‘Should we do it here?’ Darya asked, staring at the terrace door. ‘I mean, what if someone walks in.’
‘Are you serious?’
Darya wondered why he sounded so surprised. Aaron explained, ‘Veda said she smelled it all the time in the villa.’
Darya nodded slowly. ‘She must mean Parthiv. Let’s be ready to hide it, just in case,’ she said.
They sat on the chairs Aaron had brought up from their room. After a drag or two, Darya suggested they sit on the floor. ‘More comfortable that way.’ So, they sat on the ground, their butts trying to find a smooth spot amidst the tiny pebbles.
After half an hour, Darya was starting to feel the effects. Her eyes closed. She drifted. It was a pleasant, forgiving lightness.
‘You want to eat yet?’ Aaron asked. His voice seemed to be coming from a distance.
‘I had a funny encounter yesterday,’ she murmured lazily. She told him about Jasmine. The book. The fairy tale she’d read. Something clicked in her brain. The writer was probably Eileen, Darya speculated, or someone Eileen had known through the publishing house she’d worked for. Why else would Jasmine be advocating for it? She told Aaron he could borrow the book if he wanted to. Before Aaron could respond, she rambled on, talking about Veda’s erratic behaviour, her newfound secret lover and her immense dislike for Viktor and Debbie. ‘Veda caught him watching porn on his phone and now has all sorts of ideas about him. I didn’t think it was a big deal when she told me, but she said the way he did it was super weird. Disturbing. I don’t know…’
‘What’s wrong with watching porn?’ asked Aaron.
Darya gave a sluggish laugh which turned into a gurgle. The weed had begun to cloud her senses. A woolly gauze had filled her from within. To expend the euphoria she was feeling, she began to hum under her breath.
Aaron joined her and they sang together for a few minutes. It was the Black-Eyed Peas’ ‘Boom Boom Pow’. When they finished, Darya cupped her hands to her mouth and giggled. She was acting silly, she knew, but couldn’t care less.
‘You were saying…?’ Aaron prompted.
‘What?’ Darya asked, looking at him.
‘What’s wrong with watching porn?’ said Aaron.
She took another long, deep drag.
‘Fancy you asking that question,’ she murmured. ‘When you never watch.’
‘I have in the past,’ Aaron said. ‘And I do watch sometimes.’
‘Oh, you’re offended!’ Darya said, laughing, reaching to pull his cheeks. ‘It doesn’t make you any less of a man.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ Aaron replied. He uncrossed and extended his legs; leaned towards her. ‘So, you think Viktor isn’t the kind who can… or should?’
‘It’s not that.’
‘What is it then?’
Darya gazed into the distance and wondered if she should tell him. That she hadn’t figured Viktor out yet. Was he naïve and slow, or sleazy and shrewd?
Was he two people in one…?
(Or were there two of them?)
No! she chastised herself. This was not a Bollywood movie, an evil-twin thriller. Her mind was working overtime.
All of a sudden, the moon appeared to her, big and interesting, and a more compelling subject to talk about.
‘What a night,’ she murmured. ‘Look at the moon!’
‘That it is,’ Aaron replied. ‘Looks lovely.’
‘Meeting you was lucky,’ she said. ‘Last year… despite everything.’
Aaron cleared his throat. Darya offered him the pen. He shook his head.
She nodded as if confirming something to herself. ‘As I said,’ she said. ‘Meeting you was lucky. You’re perfect.’
‘So are you,’ Aaron replied.
A gentle breeze was flowing around her, cool between her ribs. In her sustained stupor, Darya felt as if her eyes had
flown from her face and she could see both of them sitting on the terrace floor from above, faces down, hunched over their knees, the only two people in the whole wide world.
Later, she would think of this feeling many, many times, mulling it over in despair—this exact moment when she decided to bare her soul to him and lose a part of him forever. The part that was trusting and pure.
‘But I’m not perfect,’ she said.
‘But you are,’ he responded. She heard, rather than saw, the smile in his voice.
She looked up at him. His face was achingly bright in the dark.
‘There’s something I haven’t told you,’ she said. Her lips seemed to move of their own free will. She wanted to shush them. Don’t talk, don’t tell him. But they wouldn’t listen.
At least that’s what she told herself later.
‘And after I’ve told you, you wouldn’t think of me as perfect anymore,’ she said.
He looked at her. Even through the fogginess of her eyes, she saw that the smile had frozen on his face.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, peering at her warily from under his thick eyebrows.
Darya shivered. ‘I know something.’
‘What?’
She could hear their combined breathing in the dark.
She gulped. She was too far gone. He was looking at her intently, his face frighteningly deadpan.
Somewhere, a bird cooed. A scooter honked. Children laughed.
‘Aaron…’
‘What is it? Tell me.’
She had been planning to tell him one day; she knew she had to, was surely going to, but when and how, she hadn’t decided yet. And she was sure she needed to be prepared for it. She had planned to do it properly. Not like this, doped, and out of control.
She could think of an alternate story to tell him, an explanation that would satisfactorily quell the dreadful probing look on his face. It seemed to her as if he already knew what she was going to tell him.
She had lied to him when he’d asked before.
She couldn’t lie to him now again, and no other story came to her, hard as she tried.
The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 36