Star Daughter

by Shveta Thakrar

  What . . . what if she was already too much of a star to be inspired?

  If she failed, if she lost, would Nani, the same person who had instituted an absolute separation of stars and mortals, still help Dad? What would keep her from closing the gates the second Sheetal left?

  Apparently Sheetal was still human enough to break into a sweat, because she flushed all over. Had she been stupid not to accept Rati’s bargain?

  She wanted to grab Minal and Dev and beg them to think of something, to point out the all-important detail she’d overlooked. Instead, she had to sit and wait as Leela deliberated and swept the canvas with her brush just so.

  After what felt like a week and simultaneously no time at all, Leela stepped back and evaluated her painting. With a nod, she set her brush down.

  When she moved aside, revealing the canvas to the audience, Sheetal felt sliced in half.

  There, somehow far more than mere red and black and brown paint, was pain, was rage. There was the anguish of having trusted and been betrayed time and again until the world was nothing more than a nightmare carousel. There on the canvas was a feral woman with disheveled, filthy hair and disillusioned demon’s eyes but also a calloused, bloody heart that refused not to beat. Not, deep inside where it counted, to hope.

  It was so gorgeous, so hideous, that Sheetal almost sobbed.

  There, she wanted to tell her mother and her grandmother and Beena and Rati and the entire starry court. You want to understand humans? That is what makes us—and art—what we are. That choice to keep getting back up and trying again in the face of suffering and injustice and despair.

  Would she lose that when she became a full star?

  “It is certainly passionate and interesting in its execution,” Charumati whispered, “yet it puts me in mind of your foi’s clients, the misery that brought them to her door. Rather than exalt these emotions, would it not be better to heal their cause altogether?”

  “If only,” Minal said sadly.

  Sheetal squinted at her mother. She wanted to see her, really see her, the way artists saw values and shapes and not what their minds told them they should be seeing. She squinted, and she saw brown skin, curves and long hair, and someone whose veins ran with the silvery essence of the stars.

  What she didn’t see was a mortal. They might resemble ridiculously beautiful human beings, but Sheetal had forgotten how alien the stars really were. The human part of her heart twinged, but before she could figure out why, the Esteemed Patriarch selected another slip of paper.

  “Please welcome our third champion, Sachin Khanna of House Ashvini,” called the Esteemed Patriarch, holding up his paper. “He will be sculpting in his chosen medium of reclaimed metal objects.”

  Maybe Sheetal could go fourth, at least?

  Sachin, forehead damp, rose from his seat. His attendant offered him a towel, which he used to blot away the perspiration. For someone an entire house of stars had chosen, he didn’t seem very confident.

  Priyanka, who had been furiously muttering with her attendants, yelled, “I don’t care! I’m saying it.” She jerked free of their restraining hands and leaped to her feet. “Excuse me, Esteemed Matriarch and Patriarch, but this man stole my marionettes!”

  Sachin let out a squeak.

  So that’s Rati’s patsy. Had she intimidated Sachin into the sabotage? Or had he just been that desperate?

  The ruling Esteemed Matriarch and Patriarch considered Priyanka. “Then how were you able to perform?” the Esteemed Patriarch asked. “Were those not your marionettes?”

  Priyanka frowned. “Yes, but—”

  “Do you have proof of this theft?”

  Priyanka ignored the laughter and murmurs from the audience. “I don’t know who brought my marionettes back, but it wasn’t him. You can’t let him compete.” She pointed to Jeet. “Ask Jeet; he’s the one who caught him stealing again.”

  Jeet waved. “I found him sneaking off with my notebook. I told him if he didn’t confess to Priyanka and give the puppets back, I’d turn him in.”

  “And he never did,” Priyanka said.

  Jeet smiled. “So I’m turning him in.”

  “Mortal Sachin Khanna,” the Esteemed Matriarch inquired, “is all that true?”

  Sachin froze, then protested, “This—this isn’t right. I was going to put them back.” Jürgen approached but stopped just short of touching him.

  “So you admit having taken them?”

  Sachin slumped forward. “Yes.”

  Jürgen gaped as if Sachin had grown a second nose. “You did what?”

  Leela rose and called out, “I have reason to believe he may have put sand in my paint tubes. I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t prove it, but someone did it.”

  Jürgen shook his head slowly, like he was trying to wake from a terrible dream. Sachin grabbed his arm. “I didn’t know if I could give you the house! I thought you’d leave me.”

  More exclamations from the crowd, and stars in Sachin’s own nakshatra were staring at the floor. Anger and confusion warred for dominance on his face as he laid into Jeet. “The puppets were already gone when I went to get them. You know that. What was I supposed to do?”

  Sheetal almost felt bad for him, except he’d brought this on himself. If Kaushal hadn’t interceded, she might have gotten kicked out.

  “Come on,” Jeet said lazily. “You didn’t really think we’d just let that go. You tried to sabotage us.” Sheetal imagined the silver blood crawling beneath his skin and gagged.

  “No!” said Sachin. “You said she—”

  The Esteemed Matriarch pointed to the platform. “Please reserve all theatrics for the actual performance. You may begin your turn while we contemplate this situation.”

  As they spread out an array of tools, Jürgen whispered something to Sachin that caused his chin to drop to his chest. Then Jürgen trudged back to their tent. At this point, Sheetal wasn’t sure he would care if Sachin won.

  The star who’d accompanied them from House Ashvini’s tent hastened to inspire Sachin, then withdrew. Alone at his table, Sachin donned protective goggles and gloves. Then he carved. He welded. He soldered. Drills whined, and sparks flew. A fresh patina of sweat beaded on his forehead, but he didn’t stop working to wipe it off.

  After an hour or five years—Sheetal couldn’t have said which—Sachin set down his tools to reveal a marble-and-metal sculpture of a white man in a top hat from Victorian times facing an Indian warrior bearing a golden mace. Sheetal could tell at a glance how good it was, how much raw feeling and narrative it communicated. It deserved a ton of applause and more.

  But like the rest of the audience, she was really just waiting for the Esteemed Matriarch and Patriarch to reach their decision.

  Finally the Esteemed Matriarch spoke. “The issue of the theft is disappointing, certainly, yet you did attempt in good faith to return the marionettes. That was a wise self-corrective measure, and one we endorse.”

  Sachin, who’d been stooped over his table, sat up now, and he beamed at his companion. Sheetal’s breath came faster. They were going to pardon him, she knew it.

  “However, the string of thefts and attempted sabotage concern us far less than the motivation behind them: You do not appear to trust your own ability to stand against other artists. Weakness of character does not become you, nor does it become the house for which you serve as symbol,” the Esteemed Patriarch declared. “Therefore, you are dismissed.”

  Shock rumbled through House Ashvini. For his part, Sachin said nothing, his eyes glassy. He didn’t respond when Jürgen turned his back or even when his escorts led him away.

  30

  The court buzzed as a cluster of stars from the disgruntled Ashvini nakshatra rushed the stage and started arguing with the ruling Esteemed Matriarch and Patriarch.

  The rest of the stars had risen from their seats and were discussing the decision in various tones of giddiness and anger, like they intended to lap up every bit of the tension.
Sheetal remembered the apsara saying nothing exciting had happened here in a long time.

  So disgusting, like they were all ghouls. No matter what Sachin had done, he had just lost everything.

  The Esteemed Matriarch clapped for silence, cutting the chatter short. “Please welcome our fourth champion, Jeet Merai of House Revati,” she announced. “He will be composing and presenting a short tale.”

  “Here we go,” Minal muttered, and Sheetal glanced up to watch Rati ascend the platform next to Jeet, the pleats of her sheer sari accentuating her graceful, statuesque frame. Contempt simmered in her gaze.

  Sheetal went numb. She’d gotten so enmeshed in her own fears, she’d forgotten about Rati.

  The entire court was listening, including the stars of the Dhanishta nakshatra. And no wonder; in the projection from the viewing pool, Rati’s antics were full of cinematic flair.

  Rati smiled, unabashedly exulting in the attention. “It is true House Revati’s champion will tell the court a story it cannot possibly resist. Is that not so, Jeet?”

  Jeet bristled but nodded.

  What was she up to? Sheetal looked over at Dev. A muscle twitched in his jaw. Maybe they should rush the stage, too.

  “You may take your seat,” said the ruling Esteemed Patriarch, “and begin.”

  No, Sheetal wanted to shout. No taking seats! Don’t begin! She didn’t dare look at Nani. Charumati reached for her hand.

  Rati didn’t wait. She injected Jeet with so much stardust he blazed like a comet. His eyes flared like fluorescent bulbs, and his fingers and curly hair turned to torches. Sheetal was sure he’d pass out, if the jolt of inspiration didn’t burn him up altogether.

  But the light vanished just as rapidly as it had come, and he swaggered to the front of the platform, letting the curious crowd get a good look at him. Finally, he smiled a wide, ironic smile, parked himself at the table with the scroll and ink pot set out for him, and began to write.

  It was a good thing Charumati was holding her hand, because Sheetal wouldn’t have been able to keep from ripping her cuticles to shreds. In his tent, Dev fidgeted and probably wished he had something to tear up, too.

  Minutes passed. Normally Sheetal couldn’t think of anything more boring than staring at someone scratch ink onto paper, but right now, she prayed to any of the gods who might be listening that it would never end, that whatever Jeet was writing, it wouldn’t be good.

  Padmini offered both her mother and her glasses of blue mango juice, and Sheetal gulped hers down. She was so thirsty. So hot and so thirsty.

  Would he ever finish? Please don’t let him finish.

  After what seemed like hours, Jeet set down the quill and stood. He cleared his throat and began to read aloud.

  “One day, long ago but not so long that the world was round instead of flat, a man went out to watch the sky through the new telescope his older brother had given him. He saw a planet that winked in and out and wondered what it was. Had he discovered something no one else had?

  “It seemed what the man had been watching was a planet, but the more he watched, the more she started to look like a human woman, dainty and soft, long of hair and arm, and short of temper. The brothers fought for the telescope, giving up weeks of sleep just to stare at her. All they talked about was how they would capture her and have their own traveling show.”

  Gross, Sheetal thought. Next to her, Minal rolled her eyes.

  “The planet could feel their attention on her atmosphere like ants crawling over human skin, until she couldn’t think of anything else. Her soil dried out and cracked, and she suffered earthquakes and avalanches and eruptions like pustules.”

  After all the hype, that was the best Jeet could do? Sheetal couldn’t believe it. That was the kind of writing that won grants? How about some actual characterization and description?

  The audience, too, shifted restlessly. No one spoke, and the astral melody was silent, but Sheetal didn’t need that to tell her when someone was bored.

  “The breaking point finally came,” Jeet intoned, his words climbing dramatically, “the way breaking points do, when she jumped out of the sky and landed on the ground with a thump. Her feet left big holes in the ground that would turn into ponds after the first rain. That night, though, was a clear one, so clear that the brothers were forced to watch as the planet came closer and closer. ‘Ogle me, will you?’ the planet huffed, but the brothers were so busy staring, imagining the fortune they would make by taking their discovery on the road, that they completely failed to see her giant hands reaching—”

  Sheetal glanced at Rati. Her grand champion, the one meant to take down the Pushya nakshatra, sucked at writing! She must be so humiliated.

  From where she sat in House Revati’s tent, Rati watched Jeet through hooded eyes. When he looked back, her eyes flashed, and stardust leaped from her fingers so fast Sheetal nearly missed it. But Jeet didn’t.

  He broke off midsentence and blinked a few times. His lip curled, and he gave a minute shake of his head. To anyone else, it probably looked like he’d lost his place.

  Dev chewed on a fingernail as he watched his cousin. Whatever he’d said to Jeet, he definitely still cared. Sheetal wished so hard she could spare him whatever was coming.

  Rati only waited, shackling Jeet with her daggerlike stare. Sheetal saw the moment when he caved, his eyes closing, his head bowing slightly.

  When Jeet started again, it was in a completely different tone of voice, one much lighter. “I will spin you a tale so rare it is unknown to most of this court—its true ending concealed to date. You may consider it a secret history of the star hunters.”

  Minal gripped Sheetal’s arm hard enough to bruise. She barely noticed the pain. Rati had warned them. I will tell the court myself.

  Only she was making Jeet her microphone.

  Nana and Nani descended from the stage and onto the platform in a flood of silver light. “Be still, boy,” Nani commanded, while Nana bore down on Jeet. “We have no time for your misguided attempts at horseplay.”

  Sheetal sneaked another glance at Dev. He sat frozen.

  Jeet kept reciting as if Nani hadn’t spoken, projecting his voice until it carried to the farthest corners of the chamber. “Upon learning the mortal man Chandrakant had willingly bled her sister, Ojasvini, stealing her lifeblood daily until she nearly perished, the Esteemed Matriarch of House Pushya, Eshana, journeyed to the mortal world in search of retribution. There she sought out Chandrakant and ended his life with the same knife he had used on Ojasvini. . . .”

  Sheetal tasted acid at the back of her throat. All around and through her, the starsong trembled with indignation and support for Nani’s actions. How dare that mortal treat a star so cruelly?

  If Rati had expected the court to condemn Nani for that, she couldn’t have been more off.

  Smug and relieved both, Sheetal peeked at Rati to see how she was taking being so wrong.

  The smirk on Rati’s face might as well have been a bucket of ice water, the way Sheetal froze. The story wasn’t over yet, after all, and from the cunning way Rati watched Jeet, whatever he was about to say would be beyond horrible.

  Stop, Sheetal silently begged Jeet. Just stop.

  “. . . but not before she cast away the child Ojasvini had borne him. Her own daughter Charumati’s cousin.”

  The starsong exploded into a thousand screams.

  Child? Sheetal reeled. There had been a child?

  “That is more than enough,” said Nana. “You are wasting the judges’ time.”

  “Ah, but my champion is permitted the entirety of his turn,” Rati called from her tent. “And I for one would hear the rest of his story.”

  The Esteemed Matriarch of House Dhanishta nodded. “She is correct. Continue, mortal Jeet Merai, if you would.”

  Nani’s mouth puckered in anger, but there was nothing she could do.

  “Though she might have brought him here,” Jeet narrated with a little too much fanfare, “instea
d Eshana abandoned the poor babe, her sister’s offspring, to a mortal family, leaving them no guidance.

  “Traumatized by her ordeal, Ojasvini made no protest as her sister ripped the infant from her arms. In shock, she accompanied Eshana to the gates of Svargalok. But as Eshana moved to enter the palace, Ojasvini’s clouded eyes cleared. ‘I will not forsake my child,’ she said. ‘I must go back for him.’

  “‘But you cannot bring him here,’ Eshana replied. ‘Not when that man nearly bled you dry!’

  “‘The court has always accepted all our children, mortal blood or no, and raised them into full stars,’ Ojasvini said. ‘It is our duty to do so. Moreover, he is my son, and I love him as I once loved his father.’

  “Eshana knew this to be so, yet she could not abide the thought of that mortal’s child living among the stars. ‘You must not do this. I will not permit you.’

  “Ojasvini grew sorrowful. ‘You would punish my son for the sins of his father? Well, I will not. Tell me where he is.’

  “Eshana refused. ‘I have placed him with a mortal family. That is all you need to know.’

  “Ojasvini implored her, even throwing herself at Eshana’s feet, but Eshana would not yield. Finally Ojasvini turned away to descend once more. ‘No matter how long it takes, I will find him,’ she swore.

  “Eshana’s overweening pride outweighed her compassion, and though she knew stars could not survive for long in the mortal realm, she let her sister go. She was certain Ojasvini would soon come to her senses and resume her life among the stellar court.”

  Listening, Sheetal grew sicker and sicker. Would Nani have abandoned her, too?

  She spun one of her bangles around and around. Worse, would Nani lock the gates behind her as soon as the competition was over?

  “Time passed, yet Ojasvini did not return. Eshana initially attributed it to obstinacy. Then more time passed, and even her hard heart could not withstand her sister’s absence. Eshana began to rue her own rashness and slipped away to the mortal realm to find Ojasvini—and the babe she realized she should never have given away.