‘No,’ said my mother, ‘you are to fast today so Joshi can examine you. He will look at you this evening, so not a drop through your lips all day, do you understand?’
I hated fasting, hated how often we had to do it; it seemed like we were always going hungry – for a good catch, for a good husband, for the long life of my brother and father, to appease the river goddess and I also hated how it seemed like the men never had to do it. But that day it didn’t bother me so much. The smell was gone and my faith in Joshi was so high, I knew he could banish it forever.
I did my chores quickly and left the hut before my mother could ask me to do more. I was a hungry child, always hungry, always longing for something to eat, and that year, the one where I grew more than two inches, my belly was never full. I would never be able to sit still while the rest of the family had lunch, so I went to the part of the riverbank that was mine alone to dream about my future. I promised myself a lovely afternoon, looking at clouds and thinking about my real parents, as a reward for going without food.
I couldn’t sit still that day. I ran up and down in the sand, and when I grew exhausted, I lay down in it and grabbed at it with my fists, feeling it trickle out through the gaps between my fingers. I sunk my toes in as deep as I could, and tilted my face back into a cool breeze that had just come up, as if summoned by me. What should I imagine today, I asked myself – shall I be reunited with my apsara mother and taken to Indra’s court? Or shall I come across my father and my brother who will no doubt want to take me to their kingdom, where I shall live as a royal princess?
I must have drifted off to sleep, because I woke up with a start to a lashing of water on my face. The rains had arrived. It was always a magical moment for us, indeed perhaps for the rest of the kingdom. I stood and stretched out my palms, feeling the drops collect and fill in my cupped palms, but then I realized – too late! – that the special powder of herbs was washing off. I was left drenched, cold and smelly once more.
I could have wept.
Instead, I turned soberly for home, ignoring the shouts of glee from the far side of the bank where the children of the village were gathering to leap and play in the first sweet shower. As I turned, I caught a glimpse of someone from the corner of my eye, next to an old boat that had been lying there ever since I could remember. I jumped out of my skin.
‘Girl,’ said the woman, for it was a woman, so old that she was bent over double, that her hands shook as she tried to place her drenched sari over her head. ‘Wait, girl.’
I stood and stared at her. Strangers never came to our village, at least not as suddenly as this one did. To approach us, you’d either have to come via the road, which was narrow and muddy in this weather, by which time someone would spot you. Or you could come by boat, which meant hiring one of us to ferry you here and back. I had never laid eyes on this woman before, and all of a sudden, I remembered my mother’s stories about witches who disguised themselves as old helpless women to prey on young girls.
As if she read my mind, the old woman laughed. It was a dry hack-hack-hack sound, which quickly turned into a cough. ‘I’m no witch, girl. I’m just an old woman who got stuck on this side of the bank before the rains started.’
But wouldn’t a witch be exactly the sort of person who declared they weren’t a witch?
She spotted me hesitating, the heel of my left foot still raised so I could spin and run off. Coughing again, she said, ‘All right, maybe I am a little bit of a witch. But not one who will hurt you. All I need is to go back to the island over there.’
I found my tongue. ‘There is no island over there, Granny.’ For it didn’t hurt to be polite, especially to a witch. ‘I’ve lived here all my life and there is no island.’
‘All your life, eh?’ The old woman pulled herself out of the shadows and came towards me. ‘I’d wager you haven’t spent all your life here.’ I opened my mouth to contradict her and then remembered the first few months of the story my father told me, the first few months where I belonged not to him and my mother but to an apsara and a king.
‘Look there,’ she said, placing one wrinkled hand on my shoulder and pointing with the other. ‘There is my island. Do you see it?’
And there, through the lashing rain, I actually did see trees and sand and – yes! – an island, forming out of the mist, even though I could have sworn it wasn’t there before.
‘I’ll call someone to ferry you,’ I said.
‘Why call someone? You can do it, can’t you?’
Technically, I supposed I could. I hadn’t ever taken a boat out by myself before, but I had rowed ours under my father’s supervision. But I’d still have to go untether the boat from where it was and take this old woman with me. I said as much and she tilted her head in the manner of a much younger woman. ‘There’s a boat right here.’
‘That old thing? It’s been here for years, Granny. It won’t hold in the rain.’ Then, it occurred to me: ‘How did you get here?’
She laughed again, hack-hack-hack, and led me by the hand to the boat. I could see she had no intention of answering my question. ‘Turn it over, girl,’ she said. ‘It’ll hold. I’ll make sure of it.’
I looked uneasily at the turbulent river but I saw the way the old woman stood back, so confident that I was going to get her home, that I felt it might work after all. I was so much younger then, ready for anyone to believe in me, ready to make my pretend world – where I could fly and swim and dance gracefully and meet with the gods – a real thing in an instant. I would’ve exchanged anything for it, and I think that day, with the old lady, that was my first day of barter, even though I didn’t know it yet.
I heaved the boat from its side to lie flat on the sand and hopped inside it. It looked as leaky as you would expect, the bottom worn away by barnacles and moss, the wood inside as soft as fabric. If I pushed against it, there’d be a palm-sized hole. I was not afraid of drowning – I was too young then to consider death as something that might happen to me, even though I had known children who died – but I was afraid of being stuck in the middle of the roaring, rushing river with no one to save me.
‘Hurry up, girl,’ said the old woman, impatiently. ‘Push it into the water.’
Whoever had abandoned the boat had thoughtfully abandoned the old punt pole as well. It was weathered too, but not as badly as the boat. I hung it on the side and heaved the boat with all my might into the water. Perhaps the wood was light because it was rotted, perhaps the old woman was performing her magic already, but it skimmed away from me like the sand was butter, skimmed and sat on the river, pitching slightly but coyly.
And then I jumped on to the prow, testing the bottom with my feet, and the wood stood firm when, just a moment ago, I was sure that even breathing on it would make it crumble. I glanced at the old woman, who looked impassive, sticking out her arm for me to help her, which I did, placing her at the back where the moss had made a comfortable padded seat.
‘Now, row me to the island, girl,’ she said, settling in.
I faced ahead and pushed with my pole, feeling the sandy bottom of the river give and the vessel move forward, all easier than it had ever been. The rains still threw up a froth on the surface of the river but we moved slowly and placidly, like we had been sent a gentle breeze.
‘I have no money to pay you with, girl,’ said the old woman presently. ‘But I will repay you by helping you. That smell you have – it is not good for someone so young and beautiful to carry such a burden.’
‘It is no matter,’ I said stiffly. ‘My family has engaged a healer who will see to me.’
‘A healer won’t be able to get rid of a stench like that. It is a divine curse you bear, but you’re too young to have invoked the displeasure of the gods, so perhaps you are being punished for the sins of a parent.’
I said nothing, only looked out at the waves.
‘What would you like to do with your life, girl?’
This was unexpected but I shrugged and said tha
t maybe I’d get married and have a handsome husband and bear him sons.
‘If that is the case, then go home to your healer,’ said the old woman. ‘I can do nothing for you. But I suspect you want something more, you want a destiny.’
The way she said that – destiny – shook something inside of me. I hadn’t known that was the word I was looking for, but as she said it, it clicked; that was the part of my fantasies even I hadn’t been able to articulate. I wanted a destiny – it was true, she was right.
‘I thought so,’ she said, satisfied. ‘Come and see me next week by the full moon. Use this boat. The magic will wear off once you put it back on the sand but it should remember when it’s in the water.’
We reached the bank of the island, which was almost eerily quiet except for the sounds of a few birds calling trrroooo-trooooo. It smelled quiet and grave and peaceful, the rain seemingly not touching it at all except for a few dappled puddles here and there.
‘Do you live here by yourself?’ I asked, because it was the only question I could articulate.
She leaped out, suddenly quite sprightly compared to the old, bent-up creature she had been just moments ago, and touched my face with her fingers. It could have been my imagination but I thought her back had straightened up a bit, her wrinkles seeming to fall back into her skin so I could see the features of her face more clearly. ‘It’s my home,’ she said simply, and walked off, swinging her arms.
It was only when I rowed back, the boat now bucking and tossing in the waves – clearly that piece of magic had worn off – that I realized she hadn’t answered my question.
Now
‘Are you all right? Did they harm you?’ My rescuer is tugging at my arm so he can see my face; his voice is gruff but not unkind, and I turn and face him, and it is the dour general Vidura who so objected to the king talking to me. But the fact that I recognize him, that he is familiar, makes me want to cling to him and weep, even though he was so disapproving of the king’s attentions to me.
‘You!’ he says, surprised, as I turn my grimy face to him, and then under his breath, ‘I should have known.’ I want to make it very clear to him that my being out here in the woods was not some engineered plan for me to get closer to the king. All right, so I wanted to see the king again, but not like this, not like some fallen woman who needs protection. But before I can get the words out, forcing my tongue to stammer out the first consonants, he is lifting my brother’s wrist so he can feel his pulse, using a surprisingly gentle thumb to pry open his lids, and touching, also with the greatest care, the already livid bruises on his soft stomach where the soldiers kicked him repeatedly.
‘Your brother needs care,’ he tells me, swooping Chiro up into his arms so my baby brother is cradled against his giant chest like he’s an infant again. I almost want to cry when I see the way Vidura cups Chiro’s head, so carefully, as though he’s a brand-new human. Even our mother doesn’t hold Chiro like that; at ten rains, he has outgrown any baby looks that might still lead to cuddles and kisses.
‘Will you get on the horse and hold your brother?’ he asks me. ‘It will be a quicker way to take him back to camp where we have a healer.’ I glance at the horse, a large white beast, and my eyes widen with fear, and Vidura laughs a not-very-nice laugh and says, ‘Afraid of a horse and would go wooing a king?’
The daughter of an apsara and a king would not be afraid of a horse. I grit my teeth and shake my head and manage to spit out, ‘I. Am. Not. Afraid.’
‘Very well then.’ He places Chiro very gently sideways on the saddle, and before I can react, he has his hands on my waist and has lifted me up and placed me high up on the horse.
‘Oh,’ I say.
Vidura looks at me, his mouth moves upwards briefly, and then he’s leading the horse down to the camp. I wish Chiro was able to enjoy this with me and feel a stab of sorrow. Please make him better, Vishnu who preserves us. And a thought so selfish I’m ashamed of it: if he dies, my mother will never love me, even for a fleeting second, Never ever…
All these thoughts – even Chiro himself – are driven out of my fickle mind as we enter the camp. There’s great activity, the tents are colourful, the men who look up and see us are curious but well mannered, their eyes watching us but their faces never turning from whatever activity they’re engaged in, whether it’s a group of men playing chaupar or clustered around a minstrel plucking at his ektara. I understand them to be different from the soldiers I came across; firstly, because they are not in the loose uniforms those men were wearing – these men are in colourful silks and fine cotton, some wear turbans with inset jewels; secondly, because of their mannerisms – no common soldier would hold his pinky finger thus while telling a story, no soldier would pull at their long luxuriant mustaches so; and thirdly, because unlike the big, brawny, tall soldiers, these men look like they’ve lived a soft life. Their bellies are expansive, their skin is milky white, their nails buffed to a shine. I tuck my fingers into my palm so they can’t see my rough hands and wish that I had straightened my hair while I was riding.
Vidura isn’t one of those men, and somehow, watching him walking quietly through the crowd and noise, I begin to think he cuts a better-looking figure than all the noblemen in their fine clothes. I admire his way of acting like he is in an oasis of silence, the way his eyes see straight ahead, not distracted by all the chaos. I try to sit like he is standing, holding Chiro straight, looking in front of me, my back a rigid line.
He halts in front of an all-white tent, hung with herbs – some drying in the sun, others rolled into little bundles and placed within white cloth with writing on it. This must be where the healer lives on camp, and I clutch Chiro closer. Please.
‘Wait here,’ Vidura says to me, rather unnecessarily, as I have no intention of climbing off this horse without any help.
While I’m waiting, and also hoping the horse doesn’t wander off with us on it, I take the opportunity to look around the camp. Here, a little away from where the men were gathered, I can see the furthest end of the camp which is full of identical tents – I assume that’s where the soldiers are staying. A lone fire burns there and there are several men in uniform milling about. Close to the healer’s tent, a little in front of it, is a grand one, hung with banners, and next to it, a slightly smaller one, also with the same banners. The royal banner flew above the biggest. Ahead of us and close to where we entered from are large fire pits which the cooks are stoking for the evening meal. A man with a cart piled high with vegetables has just come in and is talking to the cooks, while another presents fluttering pheasants for their breasts to be felt for tenderness.
‘Oho,’ says a voice and I look down from the horse into the smiling face of one of the shortest men I have ever seen. He just escapes being a dwarf, probably reaching up to my shoulder. He has a beard, unlike the rest of the men, who prefer to sport just moustaches, and a pair of very friendly eyes which are currently twinkling up at me. He pats my foot. ‘We’ll soon have you down from there, and your brother too.’ I can’t help smiling back and he is delighted. ‘That’s the spirit! A smile on your face will put a smile in your heart as well. I always say that. Now then, Amrish–Girish!’
Two boys dart out of his tent, as tall as he is short, and completely identical, from their faces to the way they carry themselves, to their large hands and feet. To further complicate matters, they’re wearing exactly the same clothes as well, and they smile matching smiles at me as one holds the horse and murmurs to it and the other holds out his meaty palm to me.
‘Take the boy first, the boy, Amrish,’ says the little man, rising up and down on his toes, and the twin by me says, ‘Anh?’ and points to Chiro. I look down at my new friend who says, ‘Let him take your brother, my dear. They’re thick as poles but they are gentle beasts, and they do just as I tell them.’
I let Amrish prise away my brother from my arms and carry him inside the tent. The healer bows to me, saying, ‘I am Medhira, at your service. And now I sha
ll hurry away inside. You’ll excuse me for my quick departure. Girish, help the girl down!’ And he walks backwards rapidly into his tent, bowing to me the entire way.
The other twin – Girish – is so busy murmuring to the horse that he jumps out of his skin when his name is called and then looks up at me, remembering. He grins widely, puts his hands around my waist and lifts me down. ‘Anh,’ he says and nods to me politely, before walking off with the horse, its reins wrapped around his wrist.
I am now alone in the royal camp. I decide to go inside the tent and check on Chiro, but before I can do so, a voice calls out to me. ‘My lady!’ It is Baana, my soldier escort from the other night, scampering up to me delightedly till he remembers he is a soldier, at which he corrects his dash into a soldier walk, which is comical to see. I laugh for the first time since all this has happened.
‘What brings you here?’ he asks, after bowing to me. I shrug, not wanting to go into it. He glances at the healer’s tent and then looks at me again, taking in my dishevelled appearance. Very tactfully for one so young, he doesn’t remark on my presence again and instead suggests we take a walk. He points out sights to me as we go along: that is where the men have contests to see who can wield their maces better, that is where he – Baana – learns swordplay. ‘Only a wooden training sword right now but I shall soon have a real one. I’m going to call her Shakti and she shall carve through my enemies like this.’ He swings his fist down through the air, and I’m reminded of Chiro suddenly and my eyes fill with tears.
‘Don’t be distressed, my lady,’ says Baana, quite alarmed. ‘Here, let’s sit down on this rock. Shall I bring you something to eat? Or drink?’ I shake my head and sniffle. ‘Do you know the king was speaking of you the other day?’ says Baana after a short silence, as he cast around for something to divert me with.
‘What?’ I whip my head around, tears forgotten, to look at Baana who grins, pleased that he’s managed to distract me from my sorrow.
The One Who Swam with the Fishes Page 4