The market was at its most serene during these hours, and she took a moment to appreciate her good fortune, for despite its petty annoyances, her village was beautiful. The houses were all one-story flat affairs, painted white to reflect the sun. On the south side, the homes were surrounded by fields of wheat, corn, and sugarcane. On the north side was the river, which provided them with a bounty of fish, and to the east, the forest. She didn’t want to think about the forest, but focused instead on what lay beyond it—the Blue Road that led to Budhiman, the capital, a place of glittering finery and wonders where a king and queen ruled and everyone wore silk. At least that was what Priya had heard. How much was true and how much embellishment was a mystery, but one that she was determined to unravel for herself someday. To the west, however, was a mountain range, perilous to cross, and beyond which lay the ocean, a vast beast she had yet to set eyes on. Rumors spoke of air filled with the taste of salt and fish as big as a man. She hoped one day to see this ocean that surrounded the Isle, and the people who lived side by side with it.
For now this was home, and the most beautiful part was the temple. Tall and regal, it rose from the center of the village like a proud, white-and-gold peacock. Under the red sun, it gleamed in pink and orange hues. A place of more than worship, the temple was a place of festivities, a place of gathering, and a haven to all. It was also Guru’s home.
As if conjured by her train of thought, he appeared before her.
“Priya?”
She started, almost falling off her stool. “Guru. How . . . how are you?” Stupid question. She flushed.
He dropped his gaze and nodded, his long, thick lashes casting shadows on his high cheekbones. “There’s to be a ceremony this evening for the peace of Mala’s soul. Just a few close friends and family. Will you come?”
She nodded vehemently, her eyes welling. “Of course I will.”
Guru nodded and made to walk away. He faltered and turned back. Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out a small white bundle. “Fruit from the offerings this morning. I thought you might . . .” He shrugged.
Priya carefully took the offering, lifting it to her forehead in respect. “Thank you.”
This time he did leave, and Priya watched him walk away, his shoulders slumped, his feet dragging. Her chest ached to hold him, to share his grief, but she didn’t deserve to mourn any longer.
Papa returned to the stall just as the sun turned yellow. His limp was less pronounced, and he looked rested. Priya noticed for the first time how thin he’d become. In her mind he’d always been a large, sturdy figure, a behemoth of a man who used to swing her onto his shoulders and carry her high above everyone in the village. Where had that man gone? Years of hard work and lean food had stripped him of muscle, bowed his back, and sunk his cheeks.
“Your Ma needs help at home, beti.” Papa settled onto the stool she vacated. “Did you sell much?”
Priya shook her head. “Just some eggplants, onions, and potatoes. Oh, and two of Ma’s clay pots.”
Pa nodded, his expression solemn. The square was filling again, and in truth, most business would be done in the early morning and late afternoon to evening time, so why did Pa look so worried? She opened her mouth to question him, but he waved her away.
“Go, go, your Ma needs you.”
Priya sighed and on impulse pressed a quick kiss to his dry cheek. She caught the flash of his smile before she turned and hurried back through the village toward home.
She was passing the well when she felt eyes on her. Straightening her back, she continued to walk, ignoring the burning between her shoulder blades. But the urge to turn and look at him was nearly unbearable. She had almost made it out of the market square when she succumbed and snuck a peek over her shoulder.
He stood with his hammer in hand, his torso bare, glistening, and streaked with grime. His amber eyes seemed to glow in his soot-covered face. He had strange eyes like hers, but the similarity did little to lessen her disquiet.
She turned away, suddenly filled with anger and annoyance. What was his problem? Why did he have to stare at her like that, and why did she have to acknowledge him? Ravi, the village blacksmith, was older than her by a good five years and a total recluse. He never attended any functions, and barely spoke to anyone. The girls in the village used to take turns sashaying past the smithy in the hope that he would look their way, but he either ignored them or glared menacingly at them, causing them to squeal and run home. Priya was certain that if the munsiff could find a replacement, he would have politely asked Ravi to leave, although she wasn’t entirely sure that Ravi would honor that request. Ravi made people uncomfortable.
Back home, she found her mother up to her elbows in dough. “Finally, Pujariji has asked us to provide the vegetable curry and the chapatis for the ceremony tonight.”
“Did he provide the flour and the vegetables?” Priya asked.
Ma averted her gaze.
Priya’s temper flared. “So they expect us to use our personal rations? Ma, why didn’t you say something?”
“What? What could I say?” She threw up her flour-coated hands. “Mala is dead, and the pujari asked me himself. He’s a man of God. It’s as if God himself asked me to do this.”
“God wouldn’t be so callous. He’d know we have to eat too.”
“Priya!”
“If you won’t say something then I will. It’s too much.”
“Don’t you dare!”
Priya pressed her lips together and glared at her mother. She wouldn’t say anything; to do so would be to bring disgrace upon their family. She knew what an honor it was for Ma to be asked to provide the meal. She suspected the pujari was aware of this too. She wondered why Mala’s family, wealthy merchants that they were, hadn’t paid for the meal.
“Stop glowering at me and chop the potatoes. I want them small and square. No, do the onions first, finely.”
Priya blew out a sharp breath to shake off her anger. She washed her hands and settled herself on the floor with the onions, a chopping board and a knife. As she chopped she thought of Mala. Her eyes stung and welled up. She had no right to grieve, so she told herself the tears were from the onions.
CHAPTER 2
The ceremony was a sad affair. There’d been very little left of Mala to burn. After prayers for the peace of her soul had been said, and hymns urging her on to the afterlife had been sung, they moved to the back room where the floor had been laid with bamboo mats. Everyone took a seat, folding their bodies into the lotus position. Ma ladled out the food onto banana leaves, which were placed before them.
Priya ate in silence. She could feel the eyes of Mala’s parents boring into her. If they knew . . . she couldn’t bear for them to know. She finished her meal and excused herself, more than ready to leave. She was at the door when Mala’s mother stopped her with a gentle hand to the elbow.
Priya took a deep breath before turning to face her. Could she read the guilt in her eyes?
Mala’s mother smiled shakily. “Priya, we know how much you meant to Mala.” She reached up and unclasped one of her necklaces. Priya’s eyes widened. She recognized it. It had belonged to Mala, a sixteenth-birthday present and one that Priya had coveted ever since.
Mala’s mother held it out. “You’ve always been like a daughter to us and a sister to Mala. She would have wanted you to have it.”
Priya stared at the chain as it swayed to and fro in the lamp light. It was truly beautiful, a twisted chain made of pure gold. Priya blinked and met Mala’s mother’s eyes.
“I’m sorry. I can’t . . . I can’t take it.” She turned and ran from the room, choking on emotions she had thought to be in control.
“Priya wait!” Guru caught up to her in the idol room, grabbing her arm and yanking her back. “What’s wrong with you? That was cruel.” His face was dark with anger.
“Cruel?” She stared at him dumbfounded.
His eyes flashed. “They offered you a piece of her, and you threw it back i
n their faces.”
She shook her head, blinded by hot tears. How could she explain to him, how could she make him understand?
“Why? Why would you do that?”
In the center of the prayer room, under the judging eyes of the Gods depicted in their idol forms she found the words. “Why? Because I don’t deserve it, because it’s my fault that she’s dead!”
Guru stared at her in horror, his mouth working soundlessly. His grip on her tightened, and he pulled her from the room, down the corridor and then outside not stopping until they stood in his mother’s tiny herb garden behind the temple.
“What are you saying? Tell me what you know.” His eyes were hooded.
Priya squeezed her eyes closed, not wanting to relive the memory, but it bubbled to the surface anyway.
“Just admit it, you wish it was you!” Mala said.
“Why are you doing this?” Priya asked, her heart in her throat.
“Because I’m sick of watching you moon over him. Get it into your head that he’s mine.”
“I never . . . I don’t—”
“Oh, please, everyone knows and Guru, well, he thinks it’s hilarious.”
“You talk about me?” Priya felt sick.
Mala quirked a brow.
It was a hateful look, and Priya felt the answering hate bubble up inside her. “I hate you, I hate you both! I wish you were dead!”
Her last words to her closest friend; a wish made carelessly that had come true.
She wiped the silent tears from her cheeks. She didn’t deserve to mourn, because as far as she was concerned, she had murdered her friend with her horrific wish.
“Priya!” Guru shook her sharply.
Priya looked up at him helplessly. “The day she died . . . she came to see me. We argued. She said some hurtful things. I was so mad that I . . . I wished her dead. I wished it, and I meant it, and then she died.” She waited for disgust to paint his features, but he simply stared down at her in confusion.
“Is that all?”
“Don’t you see? I wished it and it happened. It’s my fault!”
Guru grabbed her by the shoulders, his fingers digging into her tender flesh. “Now you listen to me Priya, and listen carefully: There may be people in this village who subscribe to such superstitious nonsense, but I’m not one of them. To be honest, I thought you were more educated than that. If wishes could come true then I would . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter, what matters is that Mala’s death was not your fault. She died because she wandered into the forest, and the rakshasas got her. They killed her, not you.”
Her lips trembled. “Not me?”
Guru shook his head.
It was as if his words had levered the boulder off her chest, and the grief trapped beneath finally erupted from her eyes, her mouth, and her nose. She cried hard and long, and Guru held her, rocking her back and forth, offering up his tunic as a handkerchief.
After an age her sobs turned to hiccups and her tears dried up. Her throat was thick and her voice raspy when she spoke. “I don’t understand.”
“What?” Guru whispered into her hair.
“Why she was there? Why was she in the forest?”
Guru’s body tensed. He gently extricated himself, holding her at arm’s length. “That’s a question that will have to remain unanswered. If I were you, I’d leave it. Mala’s family . . . we all need to move on, and dwelling on a question we may never know the answer to will only hold us back from finding peace.”
Priya nodded.
Guru looked up at the sky, and Priya realized with a start that the moon was already out. How long had they remained here, locked in each other’s arms like clandestine lovers? Her neck heated in shame. If someone saw them like this it would bring shame upon her family. Unwed women weren’t permitted to have such contact with the opposite sex.
“I should get home. Ma and Papa will be worried.”
Guru nodded good-bye, but his eyes were glazed, his thoughts elsewhere.
Thinking of Mala, no doubt. The woman he’d loved.
It was late, Priya’s favorite time of the week—Saturday night, which meant no market in the morning and instead, quality time with her parents. Papa sat by the stove, smoking his pipe while Ma worked on embroidering a blanket. It would probably be a present for Papa.
Priya sat by the window, carefully stitching sleeves onto her festival dress. She should really be working on the other two dresses she’d been commissioned to sew, and she had a whole basket of mending from several villagers to get through. But tonight she wanted to work on something that was entirely hers. She made a meager wage from her sewing, but it would all add up, and the little tin under her mattress was filling nicely with coin. Maybe in another year she would have enough to visit the capital.
She finished the sleeve, stood, and held the dress up against her. In the lamplight the color looked dark plum, but in daylight it would be a vibrant amethyst that would draw eyes.
“Beautiful, Priya,” Ma said. “You will surely attract a husband in that.”
Priya dropped the dress.
Papa cleared his throat.
Ma sighed. “Oh for God’s sake, she’s hardly an old maid now.”
Papa mumbled something and chewed on his pipe.
“Honestly Ma, I’m happy just like this.”
“Don’t be silly, every girl wants to be married.”
Priya sat down and picked an item from the mending basket at random. Guru’s face flashed through her mind, and she blinked it away. Guru was unattainable. “Not everyone.”
Papa cleared his throat. “So if someone. . . asked for your hand, you would turn him down?”
Ma sat up straight. “Someone has expressed an interest in our Priya?”
Papa hushed her. Priya could feel his eyes on her, waiting for a response. Her heart was thudding so hard in her chest she almost pricked her finger with the needle. What did he mean? Had Guru’s family enquired? The minute the thought crossed her mind she dismissed it. Guru was the pujari’s son, and his family was revered in the community. She was a lowly villee’s daughter. Even if his family managed to overlook these facts, they wouldn’t be so callous as to organize a new match so soon after Mala’s death.
Papa was still staring at her, so Priya shook her head. “Yes, I would.” She looked up at him and smiled. “I have plans, remember?”
Ma huffed. “Pah! Your Capital dream. There’s no reason you can’t visit the Capital as a married woman. It could be your honeymoon.” She looked over at Papa for confirmation, but he dropped his gaze.
“Our Priya is fine as she is. There is no man in this village that I’d deem worthy of her anyway. Maybe she’ll find her match in the Capital.” He winked at her and she grinned back.
It was moments like this that made her think that her Papa saw and understood more than he let on.
“You two!” Ma got up to fetch more tea.
“Priya, will you sing to us?” Papa asked.
Priya nodded. “What would you like to hear?”
“A story,” Ma said settling herself back into her seat with a fresh cup of chai.
Priya thought for a minute, then put down her mending and began to sing.
Papa closed his eyes, and Ma smiled dreamily as Priya wove a tale of adventure, and of love lost then found. She pictured it in her mind, was transported there, and for a few moments, she was the brave warrior, the damsel to be saved, and the beast to be vanquished. For a few moments, she lived an adventure. But then the story came to a close, and the mountains and treasure-filled cave melted away, leaving her back in her hut.
“You have such a beautiful voice. I have no idea why they’ve never asked you to perform for the festival,” Ma said.
Papa shot Ma a withering look, and she flushed.
Priya gnawed on her bottom lip. Ma often spoke without thinking things through. Mala always sang in the festival; she’d always been center stage. The villagers didn’t e
ven know that Priya could sing. It was a private thing. Every song was unique, created as it was sung. It was a strange talent, one she’d only ever shared with her parents.
“They may ask you this year,” Ma said.
“For God’s sake, Kunti! The girl’s ashes have barely been scattered, and you’re already talking about replacing her,” Papa admonished.
Ma had the grace to look shamefaced.
Priya gathered her sewing things. The mention of Mala, of usurping her in any way, had left a bitter taste in her mouth. The evening was ruined.
As she stood, her eyes caught movement out of the window. She froze. Something moved in the shadows beyond the onion patch. Something huge and as black as the ink that Master Munim had used to write comments on their homework. Twin crimson orbs pinned her to the spot.
“Priya? Priya, what’s wrong?” Papa’s calloused hand rested on her shoulder as he came to stand beside her, his eyes scanning the dark. His hand tensed, fingers digging into her flesh. “Go to your room,” he said.
The slight quiver his voice disconcerted her, but she backed away from the window as instructed. “What is it?”
“A dog. Just a dog. Kunti, fetch my stick.”
“What? You’re not going out there?”
There was fear in Ma’s voice too. It was true, they didn’t have many dogs in the village, but the ones they had were well trained and used as guard dogs. Maybe this one was wild, but did wild dogs have crimson eyes?
Papa was pulling on his shawl.
“Prem, no!” Ma grabbed hold of his arm, her eyes wild.
“What is it? Why are you so scared?” Priya asked.
Papa and Ma both froze, a look passed between them, and then Papa slowly unwrapped his shawl from his shoulders.
“Just an old dog. I’m sure it will get bored and be on its way.”
Ma sagged in relief. “More chai?”
“Yes love.” Papa reclaimed his seat and relit his pipe. Priya watched them through narrowed eyes. Something had just happened, and she’d missed its significance. As she made her way toward her room, she cast one last glance in Papa’s direction. He was smoking his pipe, the plumes rising furiously fast, his eyes fixed on the window.
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