Star Daughter

by Shveta Thakrar

  They trapped me. All of them. I’m burning.

  She twisted her weird, dangerous hands behind her back. There, no more twinkling. If she couldn’t see it, it didn’t exist, right?

  But that didn’t keep the fire from spreading through her. Or the fear as her radiance stained everything a blinding silver. She was going to go up in flames. Turn to ash.

  What am I going to do? What am I going to do? What . . .

  Her breaths came faster and faster, shorter and shorter, choking her until she couldn’t breathe at all.

  She was going to immolate herself and disappear, too, just like Dad. . . .

  The door swung open. “Sheetal?”

  Then Minal was there, tucking the cloud coverlet around Sheetal. “She’s hyperventilating!”

  Padmini stood behind her, wetting a cloth with water from the pitcher someone must have topped off.

  Who took care of all that? Sheetal wondered distantly. She’d have to find out.

  Minal spread the damp cloth over her forehead. “Count to ten for me, Sheetu. You can do that.”

  I can do that, she parroted. It hurt to hold her breath, but she somehow stopped hyperventilating long enough to count to ten. Then she inhaled rose-scented air and did it again. The whole time, she thought of Dad, of Minal. Even of Dev.

  “You’re okay,” Minal soothed, handing her a glass of water. “You’re okay.”

  It was just a wisp of hope, like smoke, but Sheetal latched onto it, sipping the water. I’m okay. Then she started counting the beats in the starry melody, letting it flow in and out of her.

  She repeated the numbers slowly, purposefully, like a chant. They marched through her mind, soldiers corralling her errant thoughts and bringing them to heel. Slowly, her breath calmed and began to deepen, and her flushed skin cooled. The hazy room grew distinct around her, bold and full of color.

  She was okay. “Thanks.”

  Minal hugged her, then sat back. “Just glad I could help.”

  “How’d you know I was here, anyway?”

  Minal hooked a thumb at Padmini, then at a tray of food sitting on the bedside table. “She told me you wanted to eat here. So we got you some food.”

  “Thanks,” Sheetal said. When Padmini didn’t leave, she added, “But I need to talk to you. Alone.”

  Padmini stepped back. “I will leave you to speak in peace.” She offered Minal a shy smile, adding, “Find me outside when you are finished.”

  The second the door had closed, Sheetal laid her head on Minal’s shoulder and told her everything, from Nani’s bargain to seeing Dev to Padmini’s refusal to help with the blood.

  Minal was quiet for a minute. “She answers to your grandparents. What do you want her to do?”

  Sheetal jerked upright. “Whose side are you on?”

  “Yours, obviously.” But Minal lit up like she was the star in the room. “Did you know she loves fashion? She actually designs your grandma’s clothes! Can you imagine the fabrics?”

  “So?” Sheetal shrugged. Who cared about that? It was so unfair that Minal got to come along and experience nothing but magic and beauty while Sheetal only got the pressure of not failing. “If she won’t help me, I’m stuck here in this competition!”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing.”

  Sheetal stared at her. “Huh?”

  “Listen, I’ve been thinking. It sucks that you got roped into this, no doubt. But maybe, instead of trying to run away from it, own it. Fight back.” Minal fanned her arm out to take in the whole room. “This is yours, you know. And your dad is safe for now. We saw him.”

  Nothing Minal was saying made any sense. “Why are you trying to make me do this?”

  Minal got up to examine the little silver statue of Hanuman on the dresser. “I’ve heard you sing. I know you can win this competition. But it can’t just be for your dad. It has to be for you. You’ve never gotten to claim this part of who you are. You’ve never—sorry, I have to say it—gotten to shine.”

  “But I don’t care about eternal glory or whatever!” Sheetal protested.

  Except, she thought, that last night in Charumati’s secret room, wouldn’t she have given anything to claim that part of herself? She’d been so sick of hiding. Of letting everyone underestimate her.

  “I’m not talking about that,” Minal said. “I’m saying you deserve to have your turn in the spotlight. Show them what you can do. You’re a princess of a royal house, Sheetal! Own it.”

  Sheetal groaned. “Even if I wanted to, I choked! Who says that won’t happen again?”

  “It’s called stage fright, and it happens to everybody.” Minal’s glare could have set fire to the bed, clouds and all. “You can’t let that stop you. The more we know about what we’re working with here, the better your chances of winning.”

  Sheetal felt even worse. Some friend she was, jealous that Minal got to have all the fun, and here Minal was looking out for her like she always did.

  Minal plunked the lunch tray down in front of her. “Anyway, you might want to eat. They say it’s good for you.”

  “Okay, Mom.” Sheetal rolled her eyes, but it did feel nice to be looked after, and anyway, she’d only picked at her breakfast. On top of that, her panic attack had left her ravenous. She could eat two giant trays’ worth of food. No, three. She dug in.

  Once the contents of the tray were safely packed away in her stomach, she started rolling Minal’s advice over in her head, poking at it. Dad was safe; Nani had sworn on it. And whatever Nani’s agenda, even she probably couldn’t swear a sham oath on their flame.

  For the first time, Sheetal really looked at the room and all its elegant furnishings. At her couture-quality clothes and jewelry. At the silver serving tray that held the remnants of her hastily scarfed meal. At her best friend, so sparkly and in her element. She’d been so busy rushing to find a way to save Dad that she hadn’t stopped to appreciate any of it.

  She was still afraid, still so scared for Dad, and the guilt of burning him would always be branded on her heart. But, the spark at her core insisted, she could sing. She could play. So what if Priyanka had overheard her botched rehearsal?

  Only the competition counted.

  Besides, something deep inside her whispered, making her palms tingle deliciously, it was a chance to finally be seen. “So what’d Padmini and you talk about while I was gone, anyway?”

  “Mostly just fabric patterns and how proud you’re going to do your house.” Minal frowned. “Oh, right—there’s some kind of fancy library we definitely have to go see. It’s in your schedule.”

  That got Sheetal on her feet. “Fancy library?” How could she have forgotten that was here?

  “Yeah, it’s ordered by color or something? I didn’t really get it.”

  Gears whirred in her mind. “Okay, fine, you’re right. I should do this my way. Let’s go to the library. What better place to figure out what it means to be a star than with books?”

  Minal didn’t budge. “What about your schedule? Don’t you have something now?”

  Sheetal opened her schedule booklet, which Padmini must have tucked beneath the lunch tray. Next up was her session on the history of the competition, followed by hands-on stellar instruction with Nani and Nana in their suite of apartments. Like Minal had said, she’d be going to the library, but not until tomorrow, when she had a class on court etiquette.

  But so far this hadn’t been about Sheetal at all, only about what she could do for everyone else. What Dad needed from her. What her nakshatra needed from her.

  What about what she needed?

  “Just a quick trip,” she said. “I’m sure Padmini can fill me in on the competition’s history later.”

  Faint lines appeared between Minal’s brows. “Why not wait? It’s only one day.”

  Sheetal searched for the words to explain. “You want me to make this mine.” She wandered over to the window and stared at the vastness of the sky, all that blue, a brilliant pane of leaded
glass that went on forever. “To own it. But you know your family’s history. Your heritage. I have no clue about mine. Like, I don’t know, what do we do for starry holidays?” She laughed. “Do we even have holidays?”

  “I get that,” Minal said quietly.

  “Honestly,” Sheetal said, turning back around, “who says Nani or my mom is actually going to tell me the truth, not just what they want me to think? What if . . . what if this is my only chance to learn about the court? About my family? I have to take it.”

  “Awesome.” Minal smiled. “Do what you need to do.”

  Sheetal’s stomach rumbled again. That panic attack must have seriously sapped her. She nibbled some of the chevdo Radhikafoi had packed before stuffing the Ziploc into her messenger bag. “Let’s go sing some ragas.”

  The library was in the heart of the palace, not too far from the central court and their own quarters.

  Sheetal stepped through the doors, and she instantly knew why Charumati had wanted to re-create the feel of this place. With its moon-phase sconces and horoscope-patterned ceiling, rich carpets, and wealth of scrolls and silver gilt-edged tomes on the stacks and stacks of scallop-framed ebony shelves that practically extended into infinity, the library felt just as magical as the Night Market.

  But even better, here she could look for answers.

  Sheetal took a second to gaze around her. So many books! So many books, and so much possibility.

  A few stars sat at the long mosaicked tables, engrossed in their reading, and she even spotted two of the other champions, Leela and Sachin, cozy in brocade-covered armchairs. And there was that rude star from the convocation, Rati, brazenly checking out Sachin’s hoard of reading material.

  “Oh, wow,” said Minal. “I wonder if they have sequels that haven’t even been written yet.” She wandered toward the stacks. “Coming?”

  Figuring it couldn’t hurt to be friendly, Sheetal waved as she walked past the tables. Leela glanced up long enough to smile before going back to the scroll she’d been jotting notes on. Rati looked right through her, which was fine by Sheetal. Sachin, though, bounded over. “I’m Sachin. Nice to finally meet you, Sheetal.”

  Except for the filmy green-and-peach scarf knotted around his neck and multiple pinna piercings, he looked like he could be one of Dad’s colleagues at the lab. Sheetal instinctively wanted to call him “Uncle,” but of course she refrained. “Nice to meet you, too. I hear you sculpt?”

  Sachin chuckled. “My work is more than mere sculpture. Having studied under some of the finest masters alive in both India and Germany, I like to imagine it papers over the gulf between East and West. My fiancé—also my manager—can talk for hours about the implicit critique and paradoxical embrace of the precolonial era as expressed by way of the Enlightenment and neoclassicism.”

  Sheetal guessed he was one of those people who thought picking random terms out of the dictionary made them sound smart. She peeked over at the books piled carelessly on his table. Two lay open, showing pictures of classical statuary and more modern art installations cobbled together from DayGlo paint, barbed wire, and driftwood. “I can’t wait to see it,” she lied. “I’m sure it’s great.”

  “Oh, you will,” Sachin said. “We’re all friends here. Just because we’re in competition doesn’t mean we can’t get to know each other, right? I’ve always believed in promoting camaraderie in the workplace. Keeps things fun.”

  He was saying the right things, but they didn’t ring true. More like he wanted her to know how insignificant she was, pitted against the genius of his word salad. “I guess not,” she said. “Well, gotta go. My friend’s waiting!”

  Without looking back, she hurried behind the tables and into the stacks. If the other champions were that pretentious and full of themselves, it was going to be a long couple of days.

  Minal had vanished, so Sheetal wandered through the rows of books alone. In contrast to the usual silvers and blacks and blues, there were salmon pinks, sunny yellows, mango oranges, twilight purples, dark indigos, and deepest blue-blacks, all grouped by color, just like Charumati had said.

  She grinned. The colors represented dawn and midday and afternoon and evening and night, all standing for ragas, songs that corresponded to the time of day. She’d been studying those since she started playing the dilruba.

  Charumati had told her all subjects fell under one of those ragas, and you sang for whatever it was you wanted to read about. The problem was, Sheetal didn’t know which raga to sing. Where did history go?

  She plucked a nearby tome off the shelf. It had an orange cover and silver Devanagari script. Sanskrit, but she could somehow understand it: wild strawberries. Which was pretty wild in and of itself. She went down a different row and reached for another book. Yellow, and more Sanskrit. She scanned the surrounding spines. All yellow, and nothing close to what she needed.

  But Leela and Sachin had found what they needed. There had to be a system. She just needed to crack it.

  Sheetal unrolled a scroll far enough to see that it was elaborately illustrated. She’d seen versions of this Mughal painting before: Radha and Krishna leaning together in a swing as Krishna played his bamboo flute.

  Had a star inspired this one? Did they inspire all art ever?

  A few feet away, someone hummed a recurring melody. Whoever it was had a remarkable voice, high and haunting like wind through a cave.

  She rolled the scroll back up and followed the music. The song plucked at her heart, turning it into a veena. As she reached the end of the row, her own tongue readied itself to sing.

  “A morning raga,” she muttered.

  Her voice must have grown too loud, because the stars in her line of sight glanced up. Recognition spread over their faces, and whispers spread through the air. The humming stopped, too.

  Trying to tune out the stares, Sheetal waited until the humming resumed. Then she followed it to the next row of stacks, where a boy she vaguely recognized from breakfast perused a shelf lined with pink spines and pink-tied scrolls.

  His hum ended as she reached the edge of his stack, and she watched as he extracted a volume from the shelf and thumbed through it.

  Now that she was paying attention, Sheetal noticed other voices singing, too, as their owners moved through the stacks. A star appeared in her row, and the book she was looking for began to glow in time with her song like starlight glittering on frost.

  It was the oddest and loveliest take on the Dewey decimal system Sheetal could imagine. She hummed a little, too, as the star took the book from its shelf.

  And now that she knew how to access the library, she wanted more. More of all of it. She pulled down another book without reading the title. She was going to find out everything about the history of the competition and the court and win—

  “Psst!” The boy near her nodded to the book in her hand. “Have you come to join our class?”

  Sheetal put it down on a mirror-worked blue stepstool. “Class?”

  “Indeed, champion,” the boy said. “The art of waking mortal hearts.” He indicated the tables of younger stars just beyond the stacks. “Normally my sister would stop in, too, but she is presently attending to your companion.”

  “You’re Padmini’s brother?” He did resemble her, come to think of it, though he looked about twelve to her eighteen.

  “Indeed.” The boy treated her to a smile as warm as a solar flare. “I am called Kaushal. It is a fine thing to make your acquaintance.”

  “Okay, Kaushal, explain something to me. I’m kind of in a hurry. How do you know what books are filed under? Like, if I’m looking for dilrubas and harps through time or whatever.”

  Kaushal burst into laughter, ignoring the other patrons’ calls for him to be silent. “You ask an archivist, of course!”

  “Huh?” Sheetal hadn’t noticed anything like a reference desk, let alone a person.

  But Kaushal showed her the open book on the tall, round stand at the end of the aisle. Its pages were cle
ar, like a mirror that reflected nothing. “History of dilrubas,” he told it. The book shimmered and turned the gray-purple of a midsummer gloaming. Its pages emitted a sprinkle of notes—an evening raga.

  No. This was the loveliest take on library coding she’d ever seen.

  “Any text that falls under the category of evening raga can be located in a section with purple books,” Kaushal added, and Sheetal glanced around. There were purple books just one shelf over.

  “You should be an archivist,” she told Kaushal, making him beam bright.

  “I will help you find your books,” he offered, but as they turned the corner, curiosity overtook the sidereal melody, and a handful of younger stars from the class crowded in around them. Just like the ones back in the common room, they teemed with questions: Would she show them her phone? Had she ever been on television? How could mortals eat dead animals? Was it true mortals thought magic a fiction? Were they truly so foolish?

  “Wait, wait,” said Kaushal, holding up his hands. “Let her sit down first!”

  The students unwillingly made room for Sheetal to pass, the brilliant light of their interest chasing her all the way to their table.

  Three more sat there pretending to be lost in their studies, but they weren’t fooling anyone. Sheetal bit back her amusement. “How about this?” she suggested. “You want to learn about mortals, and I want to learn about you. So tell me about this ‘art of waking mortal hearts.’ Does that mean inspiring them, or . . . ?”

  As if Kaushal had been waiting for the chance to play teacher, he launched into a lecture. “Mortals are meant to create. They do so all the time, solving problems and bringing visions to life. Some of that is inherent, and some of that is due to us.”

  By now, everyone had put their books and scrolls down. “Do not aid her!” a star cried. “She belongs to the Pushya nakshatra.”

  “Yes, and that is my house,” said Kaushal. “Why would I not aid my champion?”

  The star who’d objected shut her book, as did three others near her. “She is not our champion, and we will not help.”