Star Daughter

by Shveta Thakrar

  “How about a potion to help my dad’s heart?” Sheetal asked.

  “Some hearts,” said the vendor, as if she hadn’t heard, “seek their reflection in the form of a lover’s rapt gaze.” She thrust a silver hand mirror at Sheetal, ordinary but for a single brown eye where the glass should have been. As if someone were peering through the frame—and winking.

  Sheetal nudged the mirror away. That was not how she wanted Dev to see her. Not that she cared what he thought anymore. “No, thanks. If you don’t have a potion, can you at least tell me if you’ve seen anyone who plays the harp?”

  The vendor cackled. “I have a better question. Tell me, do you know the secret at the center of a rotting mushroom?”

  “This is foolishness,” Radhikafoi told them. “Come, dikriyo.”

  In another stall, Minal asked after the harp sisters while twirling a golden apple on its dew-damp branch. In a third, Sheetal picked up, then put down, decanters of black beetle-wing wine and unguents for forming a peridot carapace of one’s skin. Wonder steeped in her like starlight.

  “I want it. All of it,” Minal murmured, her voice heavy with longing. “Promise we’ll come back?”

  Sheetal loved this place, all the glorious things, all the ghastly things. She could spend the rest of the night spellbound. But they hadn’t found either the harp sisters or anything to help Dad, never mind a way for Minal to get to Svargalok. “We will. After.”

  Then, across the way, in a stall so impenetrably dark the night paled next to it, she saw a jar full of marbles, each an entire world. Infinite worlds like infinite stories—the old yearning tugged, heartsore, in her chest. A pull toward something else, something she had no name for.

  The flame at her core kindled. Here, it whispered, she could be seen, fully and freely.

  She picked up the jar of marble worlds.

  “Ah,” said the vendor, a vetala cloaked all in black with a hooded yellow stare every bit as shrewd as the spiders’. “You pursue it even now, do you not? Your place in all things? A place to belong?”

  Sheetal felt coated in invisible slime. Had this creature, a spirit that had possessed a corpse to get around, just read her mind? “I’m looking for the harp sisters. Do you know where I can find them?”

  “Find yourself first, little child caught between. Always floating, always seeking,” the vetala said. His smile grew sharper. “Did I mention that with practice, you can visit each of the worlds in the jar?”

  For a sliver of an instant, Sheetal let herself imagine slipping away to another world, one where she might find answers scattered like coins from a change purse. Or better, an alternate timeline in which Charumati had stayed, Dad was fine, stars walked freely among humans again, and Dev had no ugly family history. A place where Sheetal could just relax. That sounded like the true heavenly realm.

  She was so tempted, it hurt.

  “My price is so small, a pittance. Merely a piece of you. I know—how about a prized memory?”

  An image broke through her thoughts, Charumati’s warm lips brushing five-year-old Sheetal’s forehead the day Dad unscrewed the training wheels from her bike and gave it a first push into independence. I can do it, Mommy, she’d insisted, nervous but trying not to show it. Take them off!

  The memory strained to uproot itself and sail toward the vetala’s open flask. Sheetal shoved it, and the jar, back down. “No!”

  Dev’s grin shone in her mind, followed by Dad’s disappointed ire. Too bad today hardly counted as a prized memory. She’d give that up in a heartbeat.

  “A year of your life, then,” offered the vetala, leaning over the counter. “You would never miss it.”

  Minal inserted herself between them. “Nope. Not ever.”

  “Why are mortals always so certain their life is worth living?” the vetala groused, though his smile remained wide and eerie. “Even the most wretched among you clings desperately to the same miserable existence you pray to be rescued from.”

  “Dikra!” Radhikafoi cautioned.

  “A simple thing, really,” said the vetala to Sheetal. “A single strand of your hair would do. But free of that unseemly pigment.” He tittered. “Who do you believe you are fooling, child?”

  It would be so easy just to pluck a strand in exchange for the chance to escape. To have the more she’d always craved.

  But the Dad in that other world didn’t need her. The one in this world did. “Another time, maybe.”

  “Buy now, or buy never,” the vetala warned. His disconcerting eyes vanished into the mass of folds created by his gleeful grin. “For what you see here today may well be gone tomorrow.”

  “Buy nothing now!” barked Radhikafoi, glaring at him. “We’re here to help your papa, dikra, nothing else.”

  “He speaks true, my neighbor does!” called the merchant in a nearby stall, a middle-aged woman with the voice of a flute. “The Market fluctuates with each breath, and none can know who will remain from night to night. So come close and let me dress you! I have such exquisite fabrics on offer, all cut in the latest styles. Cloth-of-sky! Velvet spun from amethyst! If you can dream it, you can wear it, as I like to say.”

  “Amethyst velvet? Just take my money.” Minal led Sheetal toward the adjacent stall.

  A spectrum of opulent textiles greeted them there. Each bolt was more luscious than the last: shining crimson spider silk, pure flame tatting with gracefully smoking edges, blue-green organza obtained from cresting ocean waves. Sheetal ran covetous fingers over the delicate sea-foam trim. She remembered seeing her mother wearing clothes like this once or twice when Dad took her out to New York City.

  The apsara Sheetal had seen earlier entered the shop and began to riffle through the bolts. A stylized golden crown sat atop her long black hair, and jewels dripped like afterthoughts from her ears, throat, and wrists. She draped a length of cloth-of-sky against her shapely frame and considered her reflection in a full-body looking glass. The luxuriant cerulean fabric shot through with cumulus clouds reminded Sheetal of her auntie’s temperamental barrettes. A heavenly nymph, wrapped in the heavens themselves.

  “You should absolutely buy that,” Sheetal blurted. “It was made for you.”

  “It is nice, is it not?” the apsara murmured. Her words flowed like running water, too smooth to sound human. “But I rather fancy this taffeta.” One slim, tapered hand drifted from a swatch of deep pink lotus-petal fabric to a bolt of purple velvet. “Or perhaps a richer color.”

  Sheetal fought the urge to snatch it away. She wanted that cloth, wanted it to slip through her fingers like liquid. She could already feel it on her skin, supple and decadent. Dev wouldn’t know what hit him.

  Irritated, she threw that last thought right into the mental trash can.

  Her mouth curving in amusement, the apsara released the velvet. “For you, then, star’s daughter, though I would have thought you to prefer all the shades of the night.” She resumed sorting through the bolts. “Then again, it is a wonder you and those around you survived long enough for you to care about such things, half-mortal that you are.”

  Sheetal ignored the apsara’s rudeness. “Is there someone here who sells healing potions for a star’s burn?”

  “Poor child,” cooed the apsara, pausing to drape a shawl of sunshine about her shoulders. “Is your own blood not enough?”

  “Do you know or not?”

  The apsara twirled. “I know many things.” She danced away, taking any hope of a straight answer with her.

  Sheetal left the apsara to her shopping, then accompanied Radhikafoi and Minal past a kiosk serving ice cream and kulfi in wacky flavors like churel fangs and Lord Kama’s love spells. A customer wrestled with a cone of smoky gray soft serve that towered over him. “Bhoot’s breath,” he said cheerfully. “You should try it.”

  The repulsive breath of a ghost? Sheetal exchanged a grossed-out glance with Minal, who exclaimed, “Why? Why would you do that to ice cream?”

  “Shreemati! Shreemati!”
called a rakshasa with a lion’s head, racing over. Radhikafoi hopped backward, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “I have been looking everywhere for you!”

  “Rakshasa,” Radhikafoi whispered. “Get away from me, monster!”

  With a grunt, the rakshasa switched forms, becoming a green-skinned man with long, half-moon-shaped fangs protruding from his mouth. Sheetal was sure her auntie would faint when he tried for what he obviously considered an ingratiating smile and laid his clawed hand on her shoulder. “Shreemati, it is said you are a connoisseuse of quality couches? Then you must come with me. In my shop, we have settees, divans, daybeds, sofas! Anything you can dream of, in colors and styles you cannot begin to imagine. For the right price, anything—anything—can be had!”

  Radhikafoi twisted away. “Don’t touch me!”

  “Couches shaped like turtles,” he continued, undaunted. “Couches made of turtles! Couches shaped like teeth, like roses, even one like the golden thrones Lord Indra and Lady Indrani sit on in their kingdom of Svargalok.” His voice dropped to a stage whisper. “I have reason to believe the piece in question originally belonged to Lord Indra himself. It would be perfect for a discerning lady such as you.”

  Sheetal had to tell Dev about this. He would die laughing.

  No. She caught herself. Why couldn’t she get him out of her head?

  The rakshasa had snagged Radhikafoi, not her arm but her will. Radhikafoi, who had done her best to shield Sheetal and Minal from the glamour of the Market, who hadn’t let herself pick up even a single trinket or talisman, hesitated. “I—I can’t,” she stammered. “My brother—”

  At the same time, harp strings sounded from afar—insubstantial, airy as cotton candy, each chime a key to a hidden door—and the luminescence in Sheetal’s blood intensified, shining out from her skin.

  The harp sisters. They were playing the sidereal melody, or at least a version of it, and it reached deep within her, sparking the flame at her core until the part of her she’d spent the last ten years bricking off, the part that was all star, flared to life, impatient to ascend.

  Somewhere inside, Sheetal had known it couldn’t be as simple as just finding a potion, that her auntie was right and she would have to travel to Svargalok and confront Charumati.

  “That way!” she cried, pointing. “Come on!”

  But Radhikafoi hadn’t looked away from the rakshasa, and the silvery notes were fading, lost amid the chatter of the Market and the rakshasa’s expert salesmanship.

  “You go, Sheetu,” said Minal. “I’ll stay with her. You keep looking for the harp sisters, and don’t let anyone trick you. Meet back at the entrance?”

  Sheetal barely nodded before heading farther into the bustling Night Market.

  Bold dyes glistered at her, delectable aromas teased her nose, and laughter meshed with the lilting of hidden instruments, always just skirting the edge of hearing. Here the bowing of a sarangi, there the strumming of a sitar. The strains of song, high and melancholy, were enough to make her heart burn flame-bright.

  And just beneath them, the transcendent sound of the harp, soft as the breeze that bore it.

  The rows of stalls were arranged in interconnecting spirals, and Sheetal dashed right in, catching glimpses as she ran. One stand was entirely peacock-themed, selling peacock feather crowns, peacock feather saris, miniature peacocks that leaped into the air, even pairs of peacock wings that allowed the wearer to fly. Only as high as peacocks could fly, of course, which wasn’t that impressive, but still.

  Another displayed fruits she had never seen before, all strangely shaped and colored. The vendor held up a slice of something blue and faceted that made her think of tropical oceans. The whole fruit looked like an uncut geode.

  Sheetal, though, kept running, following the music, only pausing when a scattered rainbow of powders glowed an invitation from within a white kiosk. They ranged from the earthy palette of ground cumin and black mustard seed to the brilliant colors thrown at Holi: magenta, beryl, goldenrod, sunset orange, claret, royal blue, grape jelly. Sheetal ate them up with her eyes and imagined the hues swirling through her, casting mysterious incantations.

  The purveyor, sensing weakness, swore all the spices were edible—even the dusts of gold, silver, and copper. “Won’t you tarry awhile and avail yourself of all I have to offer?”

  Sheetal’s taste buds hungered for the untried flavors. Crafty as these people might be, they were her people, with the magic that Radhikafoi had denied her all these years. Dad, too.

  They should have told her. It was her right to know.

  Dad . . .

  She reluctantly shook her head at the spice seller and ran even faster. Above, the twenty-seven nakshatras stretched across the sky. Sheetal visually sifted through them one handful of stars at a time, hunting for hers. There it was—with her mother blazing at its center.

  Something burst open in Sheetal then. Fireworks sparked in her vision, leaving behind orange and green spots. Like at Radhikafoi’s house, her hands sparkled, but this time, she let it be.

  It was the call again, the one her mother had mentioned in her letter. The starsong.

  The sooner Sheetal found what she was looking for, the sooner she could appease her core’s need to rise. Resisting was like trying not to breathe. It felt like someone had squashed her forehead in a vise.

  How had she ever thought she could ignore this?

  Sheetal massaged her temples. When her sight cleared, the stalls stood at a remove, and silver vines curled over the ground, each laden with plump glass pumpkins in a kaleidoscope of colors. In the middle of the pumpkin patch sat a pair of long-haired women with harps.

  The women wore kajal around their eyes and crimson bindis on their foreheads, but were otherwise bare to the night. Sky-clad. “Who is this strange, searching young child? Her heart beats so silver, so wild.”

  The harp sisters! Sheetal could have hugged them. “Charumati said to find you when I was ready to go to her.”

  “I am Amrita,” one sister said, her long black tresses draping over her like creepers. Her smile was kind.

  “I am Vanita,” said the other, equally long white locks veiling her body. The voracious moue of her mouth sent a tremor through Sheetal.

  “Our songs are the same, but one sister heals the listener,” said Amrita.

  “And the other sister steals the listener!” cried Vanita.

  “Uh, great. Listen,” said Sheetal, her excitement waning, “my mom sent me—”

  Exchanging an impenetrable look, the two spoke in unison. “Who is who, you wonder? That you must ask the wiliest of ladies herself, our maiden Chance—or simply listen well. We sing the answer you seek but once.”

  As if on cue, they began to play pedal harps carved from blue-white ice and strung with honeysuckle.

  The song both jarred and charmed Sheetal, its notes twisting together in a struggle for dominance. Her stomach roiled in protest, then calmed, then roiled once more. She’d never had her own instrument turned against her before, and she didn’t like it.

  “There is the milk of cobra fangs, tinctures of nightshade and rue,” chanted Vanita, plucking at the strands of honeysuckle. Its sweet, heady nectar lulled Sheetal like a drug.

  “There is lead-laced vermilion, and black swan’s adrenaline, too,” added Amrita.

  Sheetal’s head grew woozy. She had to get away. Yet part of her wanted to grab her own harp and join these devious sisters, be the third in a pair of two, the gray that separated black and white, the balance between them.

  But Dad.

  “Stop it!” she cried, her words meaningless against the shining music. “My mom told me to talk to you when I was ready to find her.”

  Amrita giggled. “They will have you sing for art and for power.” The strings trilled beneath her fingers.

  “But who will sit in the silver tower?” Vanita sang out. Now she was the one with the kind smile.

  “Surely that is just an old wives’ tal
e.” Amrita’s malicious stare grated on Sheetal, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t even look away. “For wherever might a star’s blood be for sale?”

  “Just a single drop,” said Vanita. She lifted her hand to reveal a fiendishly sharp thorn. “A simple prick, a simple pop.”

  Amrita threw back her head, and Sheetal glimpsed mercy and mayhem in her eyes. “Just a drop, just a drop! Plop, plop, plop!”

  Together the sisters howled, “And what of you, little star, little star? Is your blood still as thick and dark as hot, sticky tar?”

  “Surely you know only star’s blood heals . . .”

  “. . . All star-inflicted burns and weals!”

  The harp sisters smiled. “Stellification,” said Amrita.

  “Catasterization,” said Vanita.

  “The process of becoming a star,” they said together.

  Sheetal shook free of her paralysis. “Please, just listen. I need you to tell me how to get to the sky.” If they rhymed more nonsense after this, she’d leave and find her own way.

  Amazingly, Vanita produced a carved silver box. “You need only have asked.”

  Somehow Sheetal kept her eyes from rolling right out of her head.

  With a snap of her wrist, Amrita opened the lid to reveal a wad of translucent white silk. Sheetal squinted at it. A handkerchief?

  But as she watched, the silk expanded. One petal after another unfurled until the object had blossomed into a pale, gently illuminated lotus. Sheetal’s guilt, her grief, subsided beneath its tranquil light, and she could even smile again.

  The lotus was made of moonbeams, subtle and silvery white. In it, she heard the song of the stars, felt the summons of the sky. Her blood fizzed, frothy as champagne bubbles. She longed for the comfort of the lotus; she hungered for it.

  No wonder her mother hadn’t trusted Radhikafoi with this. She never would have handed it over, not when she knew Sheetal could just leave whenever she wanted.

  “Perhaps I will journey to the heavens,” Amrita mused, stroking the flower.

  “He loves me.” Vanita reached for a petal. “He loves me not.”

  Oh, no, you don’t, thought Sheetal, and sprang. Maybe they were just playing, but she wasn’t taking any chances.