The Serpent's Secret

by Sayantani DasGupta

  Abol Tabol and Sukumar Ray

  Sukumar Ray can be considered the Dr. Seuss or Lewis Caroll of the Bengali literary tradition. His illustrated book of nonsense rhymes, Abol Tabol, was first published in 1923, but like Thakurmar Jhuli, it is an evergreen Bengali children’s favorite. The character Mr. Madan Mohan in this book was inspired by two nonsense poems from Abol Tabol—the first about a man with a bizarre contraption on his back that dangles food in front of his face (“Khuror Kal”), and the second about an office worker who is convinced that someone has stolen his very hairy and very much present moustache (“Gopf Churi”). The snake-charming poem that Tuntuni recites, “Baburam Sapure” also appears in Abol Tabol. Two other characters in The Serpent’s Secret were also inspired by Sukumar Ray’s brilliant poems, that of the rhyming transit officer, who appears in a poem called “Bhoye Peo Na” (“Don’t be Afraid”), and Chhaya Devi, purveyor of shadows, who was inspired by a poem called “Chhaya Baji.”

  Tuntuni

  The wisecracking bird Tuntuni is another favorite, and recurrent, character of Bengali children’s folktales. The father of Sukumar Ray, Upendrakishore Ray Chowdhury (also known as Upendrakishore Ray), collected a number of these stories starring the clever tailor bird Tuntuni in a 1910 book called Tuntunir Boi (“The Tailor Bird’s Book”).

  Panchatantra

  The thirsty crow is a story that appears in many cultural traditions. The Indian version appears in the Panchatantra, an ancient collection of interrelated animal tales thought to have first appeared around the third century BCE.

  Astronomy

  There are a number of references to astronomy in this book, most notably to black holes and the life cycle of a star. This is because, like in every culture, traditional Indian stories are often infused with stories about the stars and planets. Like ancient peoples in Egypt or Greece, long ago Indians wondered what controlled the sun, moon, and stars, and made up many stories and myths to explain their behavior. When writing The Serpent’s Secret, I was inspired by scientific writing about dark matter, dark energy, string theory, Einstein’s ring, and the star cycle, but much of what comes in between in this story is entirely fanciful and fictional! Please don’t take anything in this book as scientific fact, but rather use the story to inspire some more research about astronomy and, of course, His Brilliance, the Guru-ji Albert Einstein!

  Other Random References

  There are a lot of other Indian references in the story. Moon Moon Sen is a well-known actress. Kati rolls are a popular Kolkata street food snack, while luchi, sandesh, and rasagolla are all very classic Bengali foods. The absurd signs in Demon Land and Maya Pahar were inspired by the often hilarious, usually misspelled Indian signs on roadsides, highways, and even the back of trucks. The idea that there is a universal soul, and our bodies are but temporary vessels that on our death return our essence to that universal stream, is a central—if simplified—idea of Hindu philosophy. The German nursery rhyme the star-babies sing in Dr. Einstein’s class is a real German song, with slightly altered lyrics thrown in.

  And I have no doubt that almost every daughter of Indian immigrants, like me, was forced to dress up like a “real Indian princess.” Every. Single. Halloween!

  If you’d like to read more Bengali folk stories, here are some books in English:

  The Demon Slayers and Other Stories: Bengali Folktales by Sayantani DasGupta (that’s me) and Shamita Das Dasgupta (that’s my mom). New York, NY: Interlink, 1995.

  The Ghost Catcher by Martha Hamilton and Mitch Weiss. Atlanta, GA: August House, 2008.

  The Buri and the Marrow by Henriette Barkow. London, UK: Mantra Lingua, 2000.

  Tuntuni, the Tailor Bird by Betsy Bang. New York, NY: Greenwillow Books, 1978.

  Kiranmala would never have been successful on her quest without the help of her friends and family, and the same goes for the publication of this book. First and foremost, I must heartily thank my agent, Brent Taylor, who championed this story with clear-eyed enthusiasm, stalwart belief, and mad skill. And to his colleague Uwe Stender—vielen vielen Dank für Alles! I’d like to humbly thank Abigail McAden and Patrice Caldwell—the best editorial demon slayers around, who not only helped me write better and dream bigger but also made every moment of this process a delight.

  Thank you to Vivienne To and the entire art department at Scholastic, particularly the visionary Elizabeth Parisi, for this beautiful cover and art, and Abby Dening for her clever interior design. To Rachel Gluckstern, my production editor; Rebekah Wallin, my copyeditor; Talia Seidenfeld, my eleventh-hour proofreader; and the rest of Team Kiranmala including intergalactic marketing and publicity heroes Rachel Feld, Lizette Serrano, Tracy van Straaten, and Jennifer Abbots—thank you again and again for helping me share these beloved stories from Bengal with a global audience of readers.

  Thank you to the best critique group around—Sheela Chari, Veera Hiranandani, and Heather Tomlinson—who believed in my stories even when I forgot how and continue to help me grow as a writer and reader. Eternal love and gratitude to my writing sister, Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich, who plies me with wisdom, inspiration, and gluten-free treats, and to my oldest sister-friend, Kari Scott, who shared my love of stories in childhood and does still. (I wouldn’t be writing stories now if not for all those summer afternoons reading them, watching them, and acting them out with you.) I’m also indebted to my sis and dance partner Mallika Chopra and her brother Gautam for their invaluable support and advice on this project and so many others.

  Endless gratitude to the entire We Need Diverse Books, Kidlit Writers of Color, and Desi Writers families. I am proud to be a part of such a visionary group of artists who are writing a more just future into reality every day. Thank you to my local creative moms posse, Kerri, Viv, Liv, Laura, Meg, Jill, and the real Jovi—who is nothing like the mean girl named after her—for reminding me all the time that parenting and art go hand in hand. Lots of love too to my Bengali community from childhood and now for helping me celebrate the rich, funny, wacky, and powerful reality of being a Bengali immigrant daughter in New Jersey.

  Thank you to my narrative medicine/health humanities colleagues at Columbia and around the country, who taught me that stories are the best medicine. Lots of gratitude as well to my former pediatric patients and my current undergraduate and graduate students, who teach me, inspire me, and fill me with hope for the future of this planet.

  To my loving parents, Sujan and Shamita, and my entire extended family of storytellers, I am so grateful to have received these stories at your feet. To my husband, Boris, and my beloved partners in crime, Kirin and Sunaya—thank you for cheering me on every step of the way. You are the joy, you are the magic, you are the feeling of flying through the sky. I’d slay all the demons for you, my darlings, in this universe and all the rest.

  SAYANTANI DASGUPTA grew up hearing stories about brave princesses, bloodthirsty rakkhosh, and flying pakkhiraj horses. She is a pediatrician by training but now teaches at Columbia University. When she’s not writing or reading, Sayantani spends time watching cooking shows with her trilingual children and protecting her black Labrador retriever, Khushi, from the many things that scare him, including plastic bags. She is a team member of We Need Diverse Books and can be found online at www.sayantanidasgupta.com and on Twitter at @sayantani16.

  The first time the Demon Queen appeared in my bedroom, I tried to decapitate her with my solar system nightlight.

  I was fast asleep, but got woken up by the freaky sound of buzzing. Then I smelled that rancid, belch-y, acid-y odor I’d come to associate with the rakkhoshi during my adventures in the Kingdom Beyond Seven Oceans and Thirteen Rivers. As soon as I opened my eyes, I saw her tell-tale outline: pointy crown on her giant head, sharp horns peeking through her dark hair, and evil talons reaching from her long arms.

  I reached for my magic bow and quiver under my bed, but when my hand came up empty, I remembered I’d left them in my locker at school. So instead, I laced my fingers throug
h the plastic rings of Saturn, yanked my old nightlight from the socket, and spun the entire solar system like a flying discus right at the Rakkhoshi Rani’s head.

  Unfortunately, the sun and orbiting planets never managed to hit her. To my shock, the plastic solar system just sailed through her see-through, sari-clad body, crashing on the front of my Princess Pretty Pants dresser, part of the disgustingly princess-themed bedroom set my parents had bought me when I was, like, six.

  “Honestly, Moon-girl! Is that any way to greet the mother of an old friend?” The rakkhoshi’s fangs glinted in the moonlight that streamed through my curtain-less windows. Then she stretched her claw-like hand toward the fallen night-light, making the plastic explode with a fiery bang.

  “Stop that!” I ran out of bed, throwing my bedside glass of water on the place my bubble-gum pink carpet was burning. It did basically nothing to squelch the flames, though. “You’re going to burn the whole house down!” The smell of melting plastic gagged me as Mercury and Venus started ooblecking right before my eyes.

  “Spoil sport!” The Demon Queen drawled, but she did lean over and breathe an icy gust of wind onto the burning planets—a little mini hailstorm—leaving a charred and smelly solar system on my bedroom floor.

  “You’re not real.” I blinked my eyes, trying to wake myself up. “I’m imagining this.”

  The demoness belched. Loudly. “You don’t have enough imagination to conjure the likes of me!”

  Hoping to catch her off-guard, just in case I was wrong about the whole being-a-nightmare thing, I launched myself at the rakkhoshi with a ferocious yowl. But she just yawned, and let me go flying right through her vaporous form.

  I slammed into my dresser, hitting my head hard on a tiara-shaped drawer knob. “I knew you weren’t real!”

  “Oh, fie on your underdeveloped cranium, you pea-brained tree-goat!” The queen picked her teeth with a long nail. “Listen up, I have something important to tell you. A matter of life and death. About…”

  “What?” I prompted from my position sprawled out on the floor.

  “Oof!” The demoness made a choking sound, grabbing at her throat. She repeated the nonsensical word, fluttering her hands like she wasn’t getting enough air. “Oof! Eesh! Arré!”

  Then, her image flickered, like she was a broken movie reel.

  It went on like this, night after night. The Rakkhoshi Rani showing up in her smelly but see-through form, insulting me, trying to tell me something, but then disappearing.

  If the demoness were real, I would have guessed this was some kind of trick. But since she obviously couldn’t be, I could only surmise I should stop sneaking so many chocolate chip cookies before bedtime. Because man, was this a super weird dream. Every time we got to the part where she wanted to tell me her secret, the rakkhoshi would open her mouth and flap her lips, like some kind of landed demonic fish. She would claw at her throat. Her mouth would move, but no sound would come out. Eventually, her image would flicker and fade altogether.

  The closest she got to telling me her secret was one night when she managed to tell me some kind of riddle poem that made absolutely no sense when I first heard it:

  Elladin belladin, Milk White Sea

  Who seeks immortality?

  A drum and flame, eternity

  Life and death in balance be

  My heart in chains where my soul sings

  The prison key a bee’s wings

  With father’s tooth you crack the case

  Humility must wash your face

  Sacrifice is love’s reward

  The path of truth is ever hard

  Justice can’t be stopped by a wall

  Purity is not the end-all

  Without the dark, the light will fail

  Gods and demons both will rail

  Elladin, belladin, Milk White Sea

  Who seeks immortality?

  “What is all that supposed to mean? What’s that elladin belladin stuff anyway?”

  “Oh, this pancreatic pain! This gaseous gallbladder!” The queen groaned. “Try to listen between the lines, khichuri-brain!”

  “I’m trying!” It was hard to win an argument with a figment of my imagination. “If I figure out your riddle, will you leave me alone?”

  “Oh, the intestinal agony of your stupidity!” The rakkhoshi grew so big in her frustration, her crown grazed my old-fashioned popcorn ceiling. She blew green smoke out of her ears and nose, and burped like she was lactose intolerant and had just eaten a cheesy burrito chased by a dozen milkshakes.

  “You can’t understand, can you Loonie-Moonie?”

  “Of course I can’t understand! Because you’re. Not. Real!” I shouted so loud I actually woke myself up.

  Coming back from the bathroom, though, I couldn’t help but stare at the dents in the popcorn ceiling, the flakes of plaster on the foot of my bedspread, the half-melted solar system on my dresser, and the charred spot on my carpet. Plus, my bedroom smelled all gaseous like it was at the receiving end of an exhaust vent straight from a garbage dump.

  But that was all just my middle-of-the-night imagination. Or maybe some cookie-induced sleepwalking. The nightlight was obviously so old and decrepit it had just spontaneously combusted. And the smell was probably a lingering combination of melted plastic and some nasty gym clothes that I’d forgotten to wash. Or so I tried to convince myself.

  But the thing about subconscious dreams that aren’t actually subconscious dreams? Eventually, they come back to bite you in the chocolate chip.

  Copyright © 2018 by Sayantani DasGupta

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  First edition, March 2018

  Book design by Abby Dening

  Border designs by Abby Dening with imagery ©: RedKoala/Shutterstock; Alex Sunset/Shutterstock; and Filip Bjorkman/Shutterstock.

  Cover illustration © 2018 by Vivienne To

  Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi

  Author photo by Chris X. Carroll

  e-ISBN 978-1-338-18572-0

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