A Thousand Beginnings and Endings

by Ellen Oh

  “I can’t believe he apologized so quickly. Maybe he’s not so bad? I really thought that was going to be harder.” I looked at him thoughtfully.

  “What. Did. I. Miss?” Jess broke through the crowds who were milling about the floor waiting for the prayer to start.

  “Dinesh apologized.”

  “Yes!” We slapped palms in a victorious high-five.

  “And then he flirted with Jaya,” Nirali deadpanned.

  “He did not.” Even though he definitely had.

  “Ooooh, Jaya. Maybe you can be his redemption arc!” Jess grinned.

  “It doesn’t matter, because I forbid it.” Nirali said, smiling in that evil way that always got us in trouble. I pulled on her ponytail.

  “But Nirali, she could reform him, she could make him better!” Jess teased.

  “Jess don’t encourage this! Ew. He’s my nemesis!” Nirali shuddered.

  I looked back to see Dinesh sweeping up around the statue. He glanced up and gave me a tiny shrug. Behind him, the Durgā murti looked on peacefully. Lesson learned, Durgā ji, I thought. We shouldn’t lose our joy in petty arguments or cockiness. Let the gods have their battles of good and evil. We were here to dance.

  “He apologized, and I don’t think good nemesi apologize? He is pretty cute. . . .” I tapped a finger against my chin and smiled.

  “Oh my god, please can we stop talking about this and get our daandiyan?”

  I let Nirali drag us toward the tables set up in the back. “Okay, okay, but don’t get mad if I ask him to be my raas partner.”

  “Jaya!”

  I laughed at Nirali’s sputtering and pushed forward to beat my friends to the daandiyan tables. We grabbed the sticks just as a bell chimed out from the center of the room. The priest was starting the pujā. My friends and I moved closer to Durgā ji’s murti. When she came into view, I put my palms together, raised them in namaskār, and found her gaze. All around me, voices rose in song and prayer, but I swear that in that moment her smile was just for me. Hundreds of thousands of gods, and sometimes one sees you.

  Navrātri

  A Hindu Festival

  Navrātri is a holiday that represents a few different myths in Hinduism. But whether it’s Mā Durgā and Mahishāsur, or Rāma and Rāvana, at its core, Navrātri is always about good defeating evil. In my story, we see a very Gujarāti celebration of Navrātri. Garbā and Raas are traditionally celebrated in the North Indian state of Gujarāt. In this version of the mythology, a shape-shifting demon named Mahishāsur performs tapas, an intense form of meditation, to the gods for a thousand years, ensuring a god-given boon. When Brahmā appears before him, Mahishāsur asks for immortality. Brahmā, cleverly, allows that no man or god will be able to kill Mahishāsur.

  Mahishāsur gains control of Earth and then sets his eyes on Heaven. He drives the deities out of their home, and in despair they go to the holy trinity of Vishnu, Shivā, and Brahmā. The three of them know they cannot defeat Mahishāsur, so they band together to create a physical manifestation of divine female energy. This is Durgā. Durgā battles Mahishāsur for nine days and nine nights (the word “Navrātri” literally means “nine nights”) before she kills him.

  I chose Navrātri because it is my favorite Hindu holiday. It’s about community and being good to one another and accepting people into your space. It’s about celebrating the divinely feminine. And it’s about dancing into the night until your legs stop working.

  —Preeti Chhibber

  Nothing into All

  Renée Ahdieh

  Many years ago, a girl and a boy lived with their parents in a bark-shingled home near a flowing river’s edge. No more than twelve moons separated them in age. The boy was called Chun, and his sister’s name was Charan. Though Chun was younger, he grew at almost the same pace as Charan—a fact he frequently noted to all who would listen. And though Charan was elder, she rarely scolded him. For she had learned early on the cost of scolding her brother.

  When they were very small, many of the townspeople would comment that it was difficult to tell them apart, for Charan and Chun shared a love of the outdoors. On warm days, the forest’s sighing branches would beckon them beneath a canopy of leaves, where the siblings would let entire afternoons be swallowed in mischief and make-believe. Their wanderings bronzed the skin of their faces a similar hue, and—though their mother tried to stop her—Charan had insisted on cutting her hair short to keep it from tangling in the wind.

  One crisp morning of Charan’s fifth year, she’d begun singing as she ran toward the forest, past her father who was stoking the glowing embers beneath her family’s iron rice pot. Chun had followed closely at her heels, nearly causing her to stumble in his exuberance. Annoyance creasing her brow, Charan had spun to face him, words of rebuke flowing past her lips like water from a steaming kettle. Startled, young Chun had stepped backward, only to lose his footing and crash to the ground, his right hand outstretched to brace his fall.

  That same small hand had landed among the embers beside the iron rice pot.

  On the darkest nights, the sound of her younger brother’s screams and the smell of his seared fingertips still ripped Charan from her sleep. And the ever-present reminder of her needless rebuke—the mottled skin on Chun’s right hand—ensured that not a day went by in which she forgot what her hasty words had wrought.

  The townspeople stopped remarking that the two children looked so similar. The passage of nine years made it all the easier. Though their hair was still shiny and dark, Chun began wearing his shorn near his scalp, while Charan’s touched her shoulders in a graceful caress. Charan could often be found singing to the skies, whereas her brother had a smile resembling that of a scheming fox. Only their eyes remained the same mirrors of black.

  Though the same townspeople were careful not to make any undue comparisons, they would ask Chun and Charan’s parents what their children did in the forest every year on that late summer day when the sun sat high in the sky. What was it that drove the two siblings to venture beneath the fragrant trees?

  Their mother would smile and say Chun was looking for a treasure.

  Their father would laugh and say Charan was learning to sing like a songbird.

  But in truth the brother and sister were searching for something else entirely. Something they’d sworn to keep secret. Something they’d caught sight of only once, eight years ago:

  Goblins.

  On a particularly bright summer morning of Charan’s fourteenth year, she woke her brother early to help their mother make breakfast. Charan stoked the fire beneath the pot while Chun served the rice, for he still feared the fire, though he tried hard to conceal it. Beyond the courtyard, their father gathered peppers and sweet cucumbers to eat with seasoned bean paste, alongside their bowls of rice. After Chun and Charan finished their morning chores, they returned to the kitchen to pack their doshirak tins so they could have something to eat while wandering through the forest on a sweltering afternoon.

  Their mother rolled balls of rice made sticky with sweetened vinegar. Then she passed them to her daughter. Charan took special care to coat all sides of the rice in an even layer of roasted sesame seeds. Though he busied himself with other things, Chun made certain from the corner of his eye that he had been given exactly the same amount of food as his sister. Not a single sesame seed less. He’d become even more watchful of late, especially when he’d learned that Charan intended to audition for a place in the most prestigious music school in the land.

  His sister intended to leave them behind. Even though she had caught the eye of Heechal, the best tracker in the village, and the match was an advantageous one for their family.

  Once they were done forming the rice balls, their mother packed them into two small doshirak tins before layering the rice with strips of dried seaweed and vegetables. In the past, she’d garnished their lunches with grilled beef marinated in garlic and sweetened soy sauce, but their meals had grown meager in the last few years, just like thei
r coffers. It could not be helped, so instead of lamenting the fact, their mother folded the cuffed sleeves of her jeoguri up even farther and began preparing rolled eggs in place of the meat.

  “Umma, why don’t I make the gaeran mari this morning?” Charan smiled as she reached for the bowl of speckled eggs.

  Chun frowned. “No, Noona,” he said to his sister. “Your rolled eggs are always burned. They taste like ash. You’ll never make any as good as the ones Umma makes, and no amount of schooling will make a difference.”

  Charan’s smile fell. Annoyance coiled up her throat like an angry viper ready to strike. She took a breath as though she meant to defend herself. Her eyes cut toward her brother, then glanced off the mottled skin of his right hand. Her words disappeared as quickly as they’d collected.

  A small smile curved their mother’s lips. “Chun, why don’t you help Charan make the gaeran mari? Neither of you will ever get better at preparing food if you’re not given the opportunity.” While she spoke, she placed a dollop of spicy gochujang on top of the rice, seaweed, and vegetables in the doshirak.

  Chun’s soured expression softened at his mother’s suggestion. He divided the tasks with his sister while their mother offered her patient instruction. When Chun’s rolled egg came out slightly misshapen and burned around the edges, he sniffed and frowned, frustrated to have been bested by his older sister. Without a word, Charan replaced his ruined egg with her own well-prepared one.

  Their mother squeezed her daughter’s shoulder in silent thanks.

  Chun noticed, but pretended he did not.

  After all, it was his sister’s fault his egg had burned. She’d allowed the pan to grow too hot.

  Late that afternoon—as they had since they were children—Chun made his way toward the Goblin Tree, his sister following close behind him, her eyes ever watchful. His lanky form skidded to a stop beneath a gnarled branch that looked like outstretched fingers, summoning them closer. Charan and Chun were the only ones to call this oak tree the Goblin Tree. From their childhood, it had been their secret. For on a summer’s day eight years ago, they’d seen goblins gather in a circle beneath its swaying branches. For just a moment. And from that day forward, Chun had sworn that if they returned at the exact time the setting sun touched the fifth-closest branch to the sky, on the same day of the year, the goblins would reemerge and share their source of endless wealth with them.

  Especially after the lean harvest of the past year, Charan liked the idea of gold. Of making the lines across her father’s forehead disappear. But mostly she wanted to meet the goblins and learn a small bit of magic. Just enough to convince the songbirds to teach her how to sing as they did. While Chun began climbing the tree, Charan lay down to rest in its shade, fluffing her hair in a dark fan about her head. Her brother rustled in the branches above, and an acorn fell to the ground beside Charan.

  She reached for it. Curled her fingertips around it.

  Then brought it closer to her face.

  It smelled like an acorn. Of the strangest sort. Different from any she’d seen before. Its dark brown hat was polished. Its meat was the color of faceted amber.

  It looked almost like a jewel.

  Another acorn fell from the branches into her outstretched palm. It resembled the first.

  Charan stood. “Chun-ah!” she called to the branches.

  Her brother did not answer.

  “Did you see these strange acorns up there?” she shouted louder.

  Still no answer.

  “Chun-ah!”

  The branches high above rustled once more. But her brother did not reply.

  Another acorn fell a stone’s throw from where Charan stood. She pocketed it, along with the first two. This last acorn appeared even larger than the first.

  Then another acorn fell, even farther this time. She moved toward it, only to hear yet another acorn plink to the ground a few steps in front of her. Charan stepped from beneath the shade of the Goblin Tree, toward a thicket of mugunghwa flowers. The dark centers of the blushing mauve blossoms seemed to wink at her, summoning her nearer.

  Another shining acorn fell, just by the thicket.

  Charan bent to reach for it.

  And the ground swallowed her whole.

  When Charan awoke, she found herself in darkness. Hungry and shivering from the cold, she scrabbled her trembling fingers across the floor.

  It seemed to be made of earth.

  On her hands and knees, she crawled forward, her hair a tangled curtain of dried leaves and soft loam. Just as she was about to call out—to ask if anyone might be nearby—a light flickered into sight, just beyond a bend of nearby earth.

  Her heart pounding, Charan crawled closer and peered around the corner.

  A circle of goblins gathered around a single lantern. In each of their right hands, they held clubs half their size.

  Charan held her breath. If only Chun were here with her! He would stride forward and insist the goblins become his friends, in the same fashion that he dared any and all to challenge him.

  Charan wished she could do the same.

  But the clubs . . . frightened her. And she had not been invited to this gathering.

  The goblins raised their clubs high. A tinny voice from the center began to chant:

  As the leaves fall

  As the sky turns to night

  Summon the magic

  To turn nothing

  Into all

  They began drumming their clubs against the earth. The light in the lantern began to grow brighter. To show the walls of earth around them. A cavern of some sort.

  The goblins began chanting even louder.

  A strange music filled the air, like the chiming of many distant bells. The space around the lantern shimmered as the goblins stepped back with a final flourish of their clubs.

  In the center of their circle gleamed a mound of gold.

  Charan almost gasped—just as her stomach rumbled. She clutched her middle, willing her hunger silent.

  A goblin along the farthest edges of the circle brought forth a large rock. He placed it near the mound of gold. Again the goblins began the chant:

  As the leaves fall

  As the sky turns to night

  Summon the magic

  To turn nothing

  Into all

  And—just as before—a pile of gold emerged from the place where the goblin had set the rock.

  Charan’s eyes grew with wonderment. She watched, awestruck, as another goblin with a tilted hat brought forth an old bucket.

  Her stomach grumbled again. This time even louder. Fear began winding through her chest at the thought of being discovered.

  Just as they raised their clubs once more, Charan reached into her pocket, searching for something she might eat to silence the rumblings of her stomach. The only thing she had were the four acorns she’d collected earlier. She popped two into her mouth and began to chew.

  And a gong struck the sides of the cavern. It echoed into her bones, causing Charan’s teeth to chatter.

  The goblins stopped chanting. Lowered their clubs.

  “Who is there?” the goblin with the tilted hat demanded.

  Charan trembled, but she knew she had been caught. She stood and began walking toward the gathering of goblins, clearing her throat as many beady eyes glared her way. “My name is Charan. I’m so sorry to disturb you. But the ground swallowed me, and I found myself here.” She took a deep breath. “If you would help me find my way home, I would greatly appreciate it.”

  The goblin with the tilted hat stepped closer, one eye narrowed. “All you want is to be led home?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t want our gold?”

  “I like gold, but it would be rude to ask for something without earning it, though such riches would benefit my family greatly.”

  Another goblin leaned closer. “And you don’t want to capture us to force us to work for you?”

  “I like the idea of working alo
ngside someone, but it is wrong to take a goblin anywhere against his will.”

  “So you have no interest in our magic?”

  At this, Charan paused. She glanced away.

  “Ah!” the first goblin with the tilted hat exclaimed. “See? You are not as good as you might think yourself to be. Of course you want something from us. All of you do.” He sniffed.

  Charan inhaled carefully. “I like the idea of magic.”

  “And what would you do with magic if you had any?”

  She thought back to her wishes from earlier. “Of course it would be nice to turn rocks into gold. But”—she gnawed at her lip—“I think it would be nicer for me if I could ask the songbirds to teach me how to sing so that I can ensure myself a place in music school.”

  Several goblins grumbled in response. Two taller ones in the corner snickered.

  The goblin with the tilted hat canted his head. He looked toward several of his comrades and shared a wordless conversation.

  “What do you have as payment, little human?” he demanded gruffly.

  Charan winced. “I only have two acorns.” She held them out.

  He considered the acorns for a moment. Shared another wordless conversation. “Very well.” The goblin extended his club her way.

  A quizzical expression appeared on Charan’s face. “I don’t understand.”

  “Give me your acorns.” The goblin rolled his eyes. “In exchange for them, I will give you my magic club. Use it just as we have. Chant the words you undoubtedly overheard. As payment for the two acorns, I grant you two chances to turn nothing into all.”

  Cold shock flared through her. “Th-thank you—”

  “Don’t thank me yet.” He made the exchange of the two acorns for his magic club. With that, the goblin waved his hand.

  From the domed ceiling of the cavern, thousands of tiny fireflies winked into view. They drifted toward Charan—gathering her hair, gathering beneath her shoulders, beneath her feet—lifting her from the ground.

  The lantern in the center of the goblin circle sputtered out, and Charan was dropped unceremoniously before the old oak tree. Blue darkness enveloped her as the fireflies mingled with the stars above.