Read Online Rebel Queen by Michelle Moran - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michelle Moran
Ads: Link
my prayer. Shivaji arrived in our courtyard with the unbelievable news. “The rani has retired one of her Durgavasi,” he said. “There’s going to be a trial in twelve months.”
“I’ll be seventeen. I won’t even have to lie!”
Shivaji was about to reply when I heard Anu cry, “Sita!” She came running over to join us. “There’s a bird on the ground and his wing is broken!” We walked over to where she pointed and saw a small bulbul with dark feathers and bright red cheeks nursing abroken wing by keeping it close to its tiny body. Anu reached down and scooped the bird into her hands. “Can it be fixed? Does anyone know how to help him?”
Warring emotions crossed Shivaji’s face—the desire to begin our lesson, and the desire to help. “My youngest son might be able to mend it. He has a gift for healing. Sometimes he visits the animal hospital to be of service.”
While Shivaji returned with his son, I fetched my dupatta and drew it over my head, covering my hair with the light scarf women wear around their necks.
“You remember Ishan?” Shivaji said as an introduction.
The boy next to him smiled shyly. I’d heard he’d recently celebrated his fourteenth birthday, but he was slight for his age, the youngest and smallest of his brothers. He bent to touch Father’s foot with his right hand, then immediately touched his third eye and heart. This is a typical greeting in India, especially if a younger person has not seen an elder in some time.
“Ishan?” Grandmother said from the door. She hurried out into the courtyard and Anu instinctually stepped closer to me. “Just look at him!” Grandmother said, as if she was seeing a wondrous animal for the first time. “Exactly like his father. Tall and handsome.”
In reality, he was none of these, but to watch Grandmother you might actually believe it. Grandmother was like an opal. You could never be sure which colors were really there, and which were just tricks of the light.
“The gods have always blessed you, Shivaji. Three sons, and not a single daughter.”
“Perhaps that’s why I feel so attached to your grandchildren,” he said. “They are the little girls I never had.”
I never felt more grateful to our neighbor than I did in that moment.
But even with Father standing beside her, Grandmother didn’t bother to hide her disgust. “I keep reminding Nihal that sons make up a house’s worth. He must remarry, or he’ll be fated to rot here with only daughters as heirs. Aren’t I right?”
Our neighbor looked deeply uncomfortable. He tugged at his mustache, and his son looked at the ground. Finally, he said, “It’s not for me to say what another man should do. Ishan, why don’t you go take a look at the bird?”
My sister was still cradling the little bulbul in her hands, pressing him against her chest for warmth. Reluctantly, she offered the creature to Shivaji’s son, who took him to a small table below our kitchen window.
Anu stood next to him while he worked. He asked her to hold the bird steady while he wrapped a strip of linen around its body, immobilizing the bird’s broken wing. The two of them worked quietly together. I glanced at Shivaji and saw that he wore a thoughtful expression on his face.
T hat evening, I went to our puja room. I prayed before the statue of Durga, the goddess of female power and the slayer of demons. I asked for help not just in passing the trial, but also in saving the kind of fortune that would find my sister a respectable husband.
“Someone tender,” I prayed, “who will take care of her when Father has passed and I am away.”
I touched my forehead to the jute mats, then lit a second stick of incense and watched the smoke curl around the goddess’s body. Long before I was born, Father had taken great care to carve each of her ten arms wielding a different weapon; soon, I would be using most of those weapons in a trial that would determine not just my fate, but Anu’s.
A
“I’ll be seventeen. I won’t even have to lie!”
Shivaji was about to reply when I heard Anu cry, “Sita!” She came running over to join us. “There’s a bird on the ground and his wing is broken!” We walked over to where she pointed and saw a small bulbul with dark feathers and bright red cheeks nursing abroken wing by keeping it close to its tiny body. Anu reached down and scooped the bird into her hands. “Can it be fixed? Does anyone know how to help him?”
Warring emotions crossed Shivaji’s face—the desire to begin our lesson, and the desire to help. “My youngest son might be able to mend it. He has a gift for healing. Sometimes he visits the animal hospital to be of service.”
While Shivaji returned with his son, I fetched my dupatta and drew it over my head, covering my hair with the light scarf women wear around their necks.
“You remember Ishan?” Shivaji said as an introduction.
The boy next to him smiled shyly. I’d heard he’d recently celebrated his fourteenth birthday, but he was slight for his age, the youngest and smallest of his brothers. He bent to touch Father’s foot with his right hand, then immediately touched his third eye and heart. This is a typical greeting in India, especially if a younger person has not seen an elder in some time.
“Ishan?” Grandmother said from the door. She hurried out into the courtyard and Anu instinctually stepped closer to me. “Just look at him!” Grandmother said, as if she was seeing a wondrous animal for the first time. “Exactly like his father. Tall and handsome.”
In reality, he was none of these, but to watch Grandmother you might actually believe it. Grandmother was like an opal. You could never be sure which colors were really there, and which were just tricks of the light.
“The gods have always blessed you, Shivaji. Three sons, and not a single daughter.”
“Perhaps that’s why I feel so attached to your grandchildren,” he said. “They are the little girls I never had.”
I never felt more grateful to our neighbor than I did in that moment.
But even with Father standing beside her, Grandmother didn’t bother to hide her disgust. “I keep reminding Nihal that sons make up a house’s worth. He must remarry, or he’ll be fated to rot here with only daughters as heirs. Aren’t I right?”
Our neighbor looked deeply uncomfortable. He tugged at his mustache, and his son looked at the ground. Finally, he said, “It’s not for me to say what another man should do. Ishan, why don’t you go take a look at the bird?”
My sister was still cradling the little bulbul in her hands, pressing him against her chest for warmth. Reluctantly, she offered the creature to Shivaji’s son, who took him to a small table below our kitchen window.
Anu stood next to him while he worked. He asked her to hold the bird steady while he wrapped a strip of linen around its body, immobilizing the bird’s broken wing. The two of them worked quietly together. I glanced at Shivaji and saw that he wore a thoughtful expression on his face.
T hat evening, I went to our puja room. I prayed before the statue of Durga, the goddess of female power and the slayer of demons. I asked for help not just in passing the trial, but also in saving the kind of fortune that would find my sister a respectable husband.
“Someone tender,” I prayed, “who will take care of her when Father has passed and I am away.”
I touched my forehead to the jute mats, then lit a second stick of incense and watched the smoke curl around the goddess’s body. Long before I was born, Father had taken great care to carve each of her ten arms wielding a different weapon; soon, I would be using most of those weapons in a trial that would determine not just my fate, but Anu’s.
A
Similar Books
