Forest of Demons (10 page)

Papa struck a match and lit his pipe, puffing on it urgently at first and with less vigor once it was burning nicely. Priya waited patiently, certain that he was preparing himself to reassert the rules, which he had kindly bent for her these past two nights.

She was surprised however when he reached under his chair and retrieved a tin box, very much like the one she kept under her bed. He held it out to her and she took it, turning it over in her hands.

“Open it, beti.”

Priya prised open the lid and gasped. “Where did you get this?”

Papa smiled. “I too had a dream once. I never had the opportunity to realize it. In time I found a new dream . . . you.”

Priya stared at him and then back down to the thick roll of notes squished into the box.

“You’re my new dream, Priya, and my dream is for you to realize your dreams; to be happy and safe. I want you to take the money and go to the capital.”

It was here, in her hands, the dream she’d clung to for the past six years, the dream that had replaced Guru. Papa was handing it to her, and it was so close she could taste it. Her eyes burned with conflict. She looked at Papa through a film of tears that smoothed his weathered face, and knew with conviction that she couldn’t leave him, not even for the most beautiful dream in the world.

“I can’t.” She replaced the lid and held it back out to him.

Papa stared at the box but didn’t take it. “You’re a good girl, Priya, but you can’t stop your life for us. We’ve lived well, we’ve had the pleasure of raising a wonderful woman, and we want you to experience all the wonders of this world before you’re too old to do so. Do what I couldn’t, realize your dream. Nothing would make me and your Ma happier.”

She dropped the box into her lap. “Ma wants me to go?”

Papa smiled. “Your Ma exercises the sharp side of her tongue more often than the soft, but she knew from the start that I’d be as pliable as unbaked clay in your hands. From the moment that I held you in my arms as a babe, I was besotted. Your Ma was the first great love of my life, and you, sweet beti, are the second.”

Priya swallowed past the tightness in her throat. “I can’t leave you both. I won’t.”

Papa dropped his chin, his eyes fixed on the floor for a long beat. When he looked up his expression was resigned. “Then we’ll accompany you. Once the festival is over we’ll all make the trip.”

“Really?”

“If that’s what you wish.” He smiled, but this time it didn’t reach his eyes.

There was something he wasn’t telling her. “Why now? You’ve had this money for some time, so why now?”

“Because now it’s time.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that the wind is changing. Something is coming. I’m not sure what, but I sense darkness.”

Priya laughed, but it sounded unconvincing, even to her own ears. There was something portentous in his tone that demanded her serious attention; still, she tried to brush off the feeling. “Papa, you sound like the old palm readers and psychics from the
mela
.” Her hand flew to her mouth. Ma would be furious if she knew Priya had visited a psychic at the fair last time it had come to the village. But Papa seemed either unaware of the slip of simply didn’t care.

Papa puffed on his pipe for moment, his eyes glazed as if lost in memory. A chill tripped down her spine. She’d never seen him like this. It unnerved her.

“I had a similar feeling the day I found you in the woods nineteen years ago. Only on that occasion I knew that something important was going to happen. Something deep inside me led me to you that morning. When I saw you tucked into that tree hollow, swaddled in blankets and sleeping as if you were cradled in the arms of pari’s, I knew that you were meant for me and Kunti.” He exhaled heavily. “It’s not something I can explain in words. It’s what I feel, and I feel that it’s time to go.”

She looked down at the box that held her future, her dream. “Then it’s time.”

Priya finished applying her kohl and slipped on her sandals. Bangles jingling, she pushed aside the curtain to her bedroom and stepped into the main room.

Ma gasped and held her hands to her chest.

Papa nodded in approval.

She gave them a twirl, a bubble of excitement brewing in her breast. Celebrations were rare, as was the opportunity to dress up and have fun. Tonight they would celebrate their successful harvest with song, dance, food, and drink.

Ma clapped her hands together. “I wish I could see all their faces when they realize how beautiful my beti is. Who else has hair so thick and wavy and streaked with sunshine?” She sighed. “They’re fools to be wary of such beauty.”

Priya shook her head, used to such declarations from Ma, who always saw the best in her, but then the full implications of her word sank in. She looked them up and down and realized they were still in their everyday clothes. Her excitement faded.

“You’re not coming?”

She couldn’t face going alone. Last year she’d been accompanied by Guru, Mala, and Pratip. The festival was indeed a glorious event, but not if you were attending alone. There wasn’t even a group that she could think of to attach herself to.

“I’m not going alone.” She turned toward her bedroom, intent on changing out of her fancy amethyst dress, disappointment sitting heavy on her chest.

“You won’t be going alone,” Papa said. She turned to him enquiringly to catch him exchanging a knowing look with Ma.

“We’ve asked Ravi to escort you,” Ma said.

Priya’s mouth fell open. She quickly snapped it shut. “But, you can’t do that, what will people say?”

“They’ll say that he’s a lucky man to have such a beautiful woman on his arm,” Papa said.

Priya looked at Ma, waiting for the objections, but Ma simply shrugged her shoulders. “What does it matter what they think? We’re leaving for the capital in a few days. They can gossip until their tongues fall out.”

Any further argument on her part was cut short by a polite knock at the door. Papa waved his hands in a shooing gesture, and Ma pressed her lips together, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

There was nothing more to do but answer the door.

Ravi’s eyes flared when he saw her, but he was quick to cast a veil over his emotions. “Priya, you look lovely.”

She cleared her throat, trying not to stare at his bare chest. “Thank you.”

He was wearing loose pants and a silky waistcoat with nothing on underneath. He had cut his hair. It was shorter than she’d ever seen it, enhancing his chiseled features. A tiny white gem winked at his earlobe, and a gold torque bangle adorned each upper arm. He looked deliciously dangerous. She had to shield her eyes with her lashes to hide her appreciation.

He offered her his arm. She took it, allowing him to lead her toward the center of the festivities.

They walked arm in arm through the rapidly darkening village, drawing more than a few curious stares from villagers headed in the same direction. She tried her level best to act nonchalant, as if it were the most natural thing for a young, unmarried woman to be walking with a young man who wasn’t a relative or her betrothed.

“Prabhu left this morning,” Ravi said.

“Oh.”

“I think he may have found whatever Chaya had left for him.”

“What makes you so sure?” Priya asked.

“He dropped by to see me at dawn, and dropped four iron nails in my palm before mounting his cart and heading for the trail to Dhaka. He left without a send-off.”

So he’d gone back to the burial site and found the nails that his mother had embedded in the coffin after he’d left. “What do you think was in the mattress?”

Ravi shrugged. “A diary or some other written account of her woes?”

“Poor Chaya.”

“Your hair is beautiful,” Ravi said abruptly.

Priya’s face heated. She dropped her chin to hide her face. “Thank you.”

That odd tension she’d experienced in the smithy was back, vibrating between them. His arm under her fingers grew warmer, and she tightened her grip reflexively, torn between pulling away and sinking her fingernails into his taunt yet velvety skin.

She bit the inside of her cheeks instead, drawing blood.

“We’re almost there.” Ravi’s voice was rough; she wasn’t sure whether he was simply being informative or reassuring her.

Soon enough the Ferris wheel, lit by hanging lanterns, came into view. Priya broke away from Ravi and rushed forward, eager to see it all. The mela always came out on Festival Day. There would be rides and entertainment, games, dancing, and food—lots and lots of food. The villagers had put up large sconces around the market, hammering them firmly into the ground. The sconces would be well fed and burn till dawn. They acted as a border, providing ample illumination with which to enjoy the evening.

Priya glanced back at Ravi and then at the Ferris wheel.

Ravi chuckled. “Come on.”

They approached the queue, which was moving fast as people took their seats. Billu, one of the zameendars’ strongest ploughmen, was turning the lever that operated the wheel. It was upon his steam that the villagers enjoyed the ride.

Priya reached the front of the queue. Carefully grasping the guardrail, she stepped onto the swaying seat. Ravi jumped up beside her, pulling the rail down and clipping it shut.

The contraption lurched, swayed, then swung forward. Priya squealed with delight. Ravi’s deep chuckle accompanied every lurch, every yelp, until they were high in the air. With the seats full, Billu began to pedal.

Up here she was untouchable; up here she was free. In reality, it wasn’t the highest Ferris wheel. In fact it was pretty modest in comparison to some of the others she’d ridden in the neighboring villages, but it was high enough for her to experience a sense of detachment, a sense that anything was possible now that she was no longer tethered to the earth.

“What are you thinking?” Ravi asked.

What was she thinking? She wasn’t sure she could pin a singular thought down, there were so many of them slipping and sliding over one another.

“Everything!” She threw back her head, laughing as the bubble in her chest expanded.

They began to descend, her stomach sinking then rising as they swayed and dropped one spot at a time, and then Ravi slipped his fingers through hers, and the bubble in her chest moved into her throat.

She let him hold her hand, sneaking a look at him from the corner of her eye. His gaze was fixed firmly ahead, throat working.

Was he nervous?

He held her hand all the way down, releasing it only when it was time to unclip the barrier. The mood between them had changed. Heavier, filled with implications she didn’t care to consider. She was going to the capital in a few days; this . . . this wasn’t what she needed.

They moved away from the wheel, standing next to each other awkwardly. She had allowed him to hold her hand. She’d given him a message, and now she had to alter that message.

“I’m going to the capital in a few days. Ma and Papa are coming too. I . . . I’m not sure when we’ll be back.”

Ravi’s head whipped around to look down on her, his eyes narrowed. “When was this decided?”

Priya took a step back. “Last night, why?”

Ravi shook his head, his eyes flicking from side to side. “Nothing.”

“Ravi . . . I’m sorry. I . . . I shouldn’t have let you hold my hand.”

He glanced up with a frown. “Why?”

“Because . . . because it gives the wrong impression.”

“I care little for impressions. I wished to hold your hand and you obviously didn’t mind at the time, so let’s leave it at that. Come, let’s get some food and browse.”

The temperature seemed to have dropped from warm to bitter in a matter of seconds.

He’d already set off toward a food stall. Wrapping her arms around herself she trailed after him, feeling oddly guilty about her honesty.

Ravi bought her a plate of delicious hot sweets, but she’d barely taken a bite when she was interrupted by a portly, very harassed-looking munsiff.

“Priya, thank goodness I found you!” He clutched at his chest, struggling to catch his breath. “I’ve been searching everywhere. You must come to an old man’s aid.”

Priya lowered her plate. “Of course, how can I help?”

“I have it on good authority that you have a pleasing singing voice; the singer we hired from Dakha failed to show up, and we’re desperate. The festival won’t be complete without song. Can you help us?”

Good authority? Ma! Gods, the woman couldn’t help herself. The munsiff was staring at her expectantly, and then it hit her. He wanted her to sing, here, now . . . in public! Priya almost choked on her panic. All these people watching . . . listening. She shook her head, backing up until she was pressed to Ravi’s chest. “I c-can’t. I’m sorry.”

Ravi braced her shoulders with his hands. “I’m sure you’ll find a solution, Munsiffji.”

The munsiff didn’t even look in Ravi’s direction, instead keeping his pleading gaze fixed on Priya. “Please, Priya! Without song the festival will be incomplete, and our crops for the coming year will be doomed.”

Ravi squeezed her shoulders in what she interpreted to be reassurance. She hesitated a moment longer, but then the image of Ma’s face, glowing with pride, swam into her mind. If Priya sang tonight, then Ma would live off this moment for the rest of her days. She owed it to Ma. She couldn’t promise to give her grandchildren, but she could give her this.

“All right, I’ll do it.”

Standing on the small stage erected from old wooden crates, she almost lost her nerve. Her eyes searched the crowd, and she found Ravi. He stood to the side, partially cloaked in shadow, his eyes blazing with assurance.

The munsiff addressed the villagers, but she barely heard his inflated introduction. And then she was alone on the stage, and it was time to sing.

She began in praise to the gods, thanking them for their bounty and their benevolence, but the song soon changed, as it always did with her. She wove a tale where gods and mortals interacted, about a quest and a warrior and doomed love.

She sang from her heart and the words rose into the air in perfect harmony before falling on the gathered villagers like velvet soft petals.