But when Anu followed, it hurt her soft skin and she stood up again.
“Kneel down!” Grandmother grabbed her arm and forced her into position. If Father hadn’t been deaf, he would have heard her screams from Shivaji’s fields. “You will stay this way until I return.”
Tears made thick trails down Anu’s cheeks, and her cries became hysterical.
“Dadi-ji!” I exclaimed. “She can’t breathe—”
“Enough! You will be quiet,” she threatened Anu, “or I will bind your mouth shut.”
I glanced at Anu and made my eyes wide, in case she didn’t believe her.
Grandmother came for us an hour later. By then, Anu had wept herself dry. But I could never tell Father. If I did, Grandmother would simply wait until I was accepted into the rani’s Durga Dal, then punish Anu by doing this again—or something even worse. I carried my sister to the charpai in her room and poured her a glass of water.
“Why does Dadi-ji hate me?”
“She doesn’t hate you,” I whispered. “She’s had a very difficult life, that’s made her very angry and mean.” I pulled back the covers and waited for Anu to wiggle inside. “Do you remember the kitten who wandered into our courtyard last month?”
“The one with the broken leg?”
“Yes. And what happened when you tried to touch her leg?”
“She bit me!”
“Like Dadi-ji. Pain can make us miserable creatures.”
“But what hurts Dadi-ji?”
Nothing, I thought. She has a son who loves her, kind neighbors, and enough to eat. “Her pain is not outside, like the cat’s. It’s in here.” I touched Anu’s heart. “When things hurt inside, there’s no healing them sometimes.”
“So she’ll always be mean?”
I hesitated, wondering if I should lie. But what was the point? “Yes.”
Chapter Five
1850
W hen a woman celebrates her sixteenth birthday in Barwa Sagar, it’s nearly always with a special dinner she shares with her husband and children. Her father-in-law’s house is decorated with flowers, and her husband might buy her a small gift—perhaps a new comb or a very special sari. Since I had no father-in-law’s house to decorate with roses, I celebrated my sixteenth year by giving a present instead of receiving one.
Anu waited on my bed while I fetched a small package wrapped in cloth, and when I took it from the basket where I’d hidden it several weeks before, her dark eyes went big. She was a seven-year-old miniature of our mother, I realized. “For you,” I said, holding out the package.
She felt the edges of the gift. “A diary?” she guessed. I had taught her to read and write when she turned six. “Like yours?”
“Open it.”
She unwrapped the cloth and took out a book. “It is a diary!”
I shook my head. “Look inside.”
My sister’s eyes grew red and weepy as soon as she did. The pages were filled with every memory I had of our mother. Good ones, bad ones, the times when we sat together in a quiet place and she sang ragas to Lord Shiva. “Thank you, Sita. Thank you!” Anu hugged me as tightly as she could. “But why? It’s your birthday today.”
“Because I know you would make Maa-ji very proud. And I want you to know her.”
“When you pass the trial,” Anu said suddenly, “will you come back here to visit me?”
“Of course. We’ll never be apart for long.” If a trial is ever called, I thought.
“Is that a promise?” She looked up at me with our mother’s eyes.
“Yes. And now it’s time for puja.”
I led her into our puja room and I let her ring the bell, so the gods would know we were there. Then we knelt before the images of Durga and Ganesh and I recited the Durga mantra. We touched the gods’ feet with our right hands, then touched our foreheads with the same fingers. Finally, I lit two sticks of incense and prayed that the day would go smoothly for us, and as always, that a trial would be called for soon.
A few days later, while I was practicing archery with my father, the gods answered
“Kneel down!” Grandmother grabbed her arm and forced her into position. If Father hadn’t been deaf, he would have heard her screams from Shivaji’s fields. “You will stay this way until I return.”
Tears made thick trails down Anu’s cheeks, and her cries became hysterical.
“Dadi-ji!” I exclaimed. “She can’t breathe—”
“Enough! You will be quiet,” she threatened Anu, “or I will bind your mouth shut.”
I glanced at Anu and made my eyes wide, in case she didn’t believe her.
Grandmother came for us an hour later. By then, Anu had wept herself dry. But I could never tell Father. If I did, Grandmother would simply wait until I was accepted into the rani’s Durga Dal, then punish Anu by doing this again—or something even worse. I carried my sister to the charpai in her room and poured her a glass of water.
“Why does Dadi-ji hate me?”
“She doesn’t hate you,” I whispered. “She’s had a very difficult life, that’s made her very angry and mean.” I pulled back the covers and waited for Anu to wiggle inside. “Do you remember the kitten who wandered into our courtyard last month?”
“The one with the broken leg?”
“Yes. And what happened when you tried to touch her leg?”
“She bit me!”
“Like Dadi-ji. Pain can make us miserable creatures.”
“But what hurts Dadi-ji?”
Nothing, I thought. She has a son who loves her, kind neighbors, and enough to eat. “Her pain is not outside, like the cat’s. It’s in here.” I touched Anu’s heart. “When things hurt inside, there’s no healing them sometimes.”
“So she’ll always be mean?”
I hesitated, wondering if I should lie. But what was the point? “Yes.”
Chapter Five
1850
W hen a woman celebrates her sixteenth birthday in Barwa Sagar, it’s nearly always with a special dinner she shares with her husband and children. Her father-in-law’s house is decorated with flowers, and her husband might buy her a small gift—perhaps a new comb or a very special sari. Since I had no father-in-law’s house to decorate with roses, I celebrated my sixteenth year by giving a present instead of receiving one.
Anu waited on my bed while I fetched a small package wrapped in cloth, and when I took it from the basket where I’d hidden it several weeks before, her dark eyes went big. She was a seven-year-old miniature of our mother, I realized. “For you,” I said, holding out the package.
She felt the edges of the gift. “A diary?” she guessed. I had taught her to read and write when she turned six. “Like yours?”
“Open it.”
She unwrapped the cloth and took out a book. “It is a diary!”
I shook my head. “Look inside.”
My sister’s eyes grew red and weepy as soon as she did. The pages were filled with every memory I had of our mother. Good ones, bad ones, the times when we sat together in a quiet place and she sang ragas to Lord Shiva. “Thank you, Sita. Thank you!” Anu hugged me as tightly as she could. “But why? It’s your birthday today.”
“Because I know you would make Maa-ji very proud. And I want you to know her.”
“When you pass the trial,” Anu said suddenly, “will you come back here to visit me?”
“Of course. We’ll never be apart for long.” If a trial is ever called, I thought.
“Is that a promise?” She looked up at me with our mother’s eyes.
“Yes. And now it’s time for puja.”
I led her into our puja room and I let her ring the bell, so the gods would know we were there. Then we knelt before the images of Durga and Ganesh and I recited the Durga mantra. We touched the gods’ feet with our right hands, then touched our foreheads with the same fingers. Finally, I lit two sticks of incense and prayed that the day would go smoothly for us, and as always, that a trial would be called for soon.
A few days later, while I was practicing archery with my father, the gods answered
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