Garbo’s Faces

a Novel — Part 18: Madhuri

The house looked the same. So much the same that it tried to whisk me back to bare feet and uncut hair. It was the inability to open my right eye more than anything else that kept me in the present.

The house had always been ringed by a low, quite ornate, but partly rusted metal fence with a padlockable gate — the padlock, long since rusted open, hanging uselessly by its eye. The gate creaked from disuse and age, much like a hoarse doorbell, but swung open easily enough. Madhuri heard and came out, head-first, carefully, wondering, I think, at the noise of the taxi and the squeak of the gate.

Her face was a little rounder than I remembered it, an extra chin, I think, but oh: that smile. And those eyes, glinting with knowing snakes, laughing always. Her hair — as always gathered up in a bun at her neck — was graying now, but still mostly black. The phul she wore on her left nostril had grown from the small diamond I remember to a little silver flower which matched her ear studs. She still wore her two gold necklaces: the thin and light one, which had been her mother’s, and the longer and heavier: a present from her husband.

But most familiar of all, and what moved me, was the smile, the smile, nothing but Madhuri behind it, so happy to see me again.

She did not seem too surprised to see us, however: Nilima’s son must have remembered to tell her after all: Nachiketa’s coming.

She drank me with her hands, touching hair, chin, hands, clothes, hair again.

“Nachiketa,” she said. Then, her face suddenly abrupt with concern, “What happened to your eyes? What on earth happened?”

I told her. “Come, come,” she said. “We must find a salve.”

And yes, as yet Harriet might as well not have existed.

“You took your sweet time,” she said then, mockly stern. Then she finally turned to my mother.

“So you’ve decided to come,” she said. “I am pleased to meet you.”

Harriet held out her hand and said “How do you do,” with a small, formal bow.

“Please,” said Madhuri, “to take off your sunglasses.”

Harriet didn’t seem to understand at first, perhaps wondering why. Then, slowly, as if entering uncharted territory, her left hand rose to her face and removed the dark glasses.

Madhuri looked long and hard into Harriet’s face, and her smile left her.

“You have hard eyes, Yashawini,” she said.

“Madhuri,” I said or cried.

“Like two small stones,” Madhuri said. “Still and resting heavily. Hiding behind smoked glass. And so you run.”

Harriet looked at me and then back at Madhuri, not quite sure what she was hearing. I looked at Madhuri, wondering too. Harriet’s eyes found and rested on Madhuri’s, still and heavy.

“Why would you say such a thing?” she said.

Madhuri’s gaze did not waver. “So you are Siddhi Sapna.” This was more of an affirmation than a question.

“Who?”

When Madhuri did not answer, I translated. “The one who achieves her dreams.”

Harriet’s face paled. She drew breath to answer, but no words followed.

“How…,” she said finally.

“I am sorry,” Madhuri said, as if the last minute had been a dream and she had just awakened, “where are my manners? You must be exhausted after the long, long journey. Please, please to come in.” Then back to me, “And to help those poor eyes of yours.”

She reached down and took Harriet’s suitcase, turned, and walked into the house, meaning for us to follow.

Harriet — still stunned, I think — didn’t move. I took my suitcase and followed Madhuri. “Come,” I said to Harriet, looking back at her, still in place, sunglasses in her hand, hard face unchanged, a small cliff lost in the hot sun, framed by hair.

The inside was dark at first and cooler. But as my eyes adjusted, my childhood surroundings filled them: the always meticulously clean tile floor; the deeply set windows, shuttered now to keep out the sun; the smell of her many spices on their little shelves by the stove, always in the same sequence, from hottest to mildest, left to right, unlabeled in their glass jars, known only by their color and texture, and, of course, by their smell and taste.

To the left, the little hallway which led to the bedrooms: Madhuri’s, mine, and Jiddu’s — which also served as the sometimes guest room, Jiddu being the least frequent of such guests.

To the right, the large gray and white room which Madhuri always called the salon. Just as I remembered it: the vases, the ornaments, the pictures, the large brown table with its ornate inlays — reds, blues, and yellows — only a foot or so off the floor, ringed by pillows, where we would eat only on special occasions. It was laid for tea: three cups and saucers, blue and gold, the small china spoons, the silver sugar bowl and the little cream carafe — another clear sign that she had received word that we were coming. I must remember to thank Nilima’s son, I thought.

And here, where we now stood: the anteroom, the main room, the heart, the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, the all purpose room — it is all of these — with its stove, its deep counters, its large, marble top table for eating, reading, playing, sawing — and which we always referred to as the Acre for its size — it is here, where I had lived most of my young life, either by the Acre: reading, writing, drawing, playing, or under it: smelling, listening, dreaming; it is here, where Madhuri would perform her magic by the stove, or with thread and needle, or with her colors and brushes, yes this room was home-universe to me, and I was suddenly overcome with the welcome of it all.

Harriet stood behind me, also taking in the room. Madhuri turned to her and said, “Please to sit down, Yashawini Miss Brown, here,” as she pulled out a chair for her by the acre and gestured her invitation.

“Thank you,” Harriet said, or mumbled, and sat down.

Madhuri remained standing, looking at her, then looked over at me. “Oh, right, the salve,” she said and ran off down the hallway.

I pulled out another chair and sat down too. Harriet was looking straight ahead, looking at things other than the room. Tired, disturbed, pale.

“Who is Yashawini?” she asked.

“It means successful lady,” I said.

“Why does she call me that?”

“Out of respect, I think.”

“And the other names?”

“Siddhi Sapna?”

“Yes.”

“She whose dreams become real.”

“You said something else before.”

“The one who achieves her dreams.”

“The one who achieves her dreams,” she repeated. “So she knows.”

“Knows what?”

“About Hammarskjold.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Though I very much doubt that.” And that was the truth.

“Siddhi Sapna,” said Harriet, as if tasting the name. As if recognizing the taste.

Madhuri returned with cold water, a white cloth, and a salve, and fussed with my eyes for a while. It felt very, very good. Cold and soothing, as if I had just returned from school, bruised from a fall.

When she finished, she stepped back and looked at the two of us again, her wayworn guests. We must have struck her as equally exhausted, for she said “Oh, I am so sorry, so very sorry. You two need to go to bed.”

“Yes,” said Harriet. And, yes, I had to agree. I ached to lie down, stretch out, and vanish for a while.

“The tea can wait,” declared Madhuri, and reached for Harriet’s suitcase again. “This way,” she said to Harriet, still by the Acre, “This way. Come. This way to your room.”

Harriet rose, and followed her down the hallway.

I went to my room, which Madhuri had cleaned and prepared for my coming. Fresh sheets, flowers in two vases: one by the window, one on my desk. Towel and washcloth nicely folded and placed on my bed. There was not a hotel who could match her for hospitality. I put the suitcase down, moved the towel and cloth to my chair, sat down on the bed, leaned over — fell over — and for all intents and purposes already asleep by the time my head hit the pillow.

I woke to Harriet’s screaming.

I had never heard her scream before, so at first I could not make out the sound. It was a high-pitched, penetrating hysteria that at first seemed to come from everywhere. My first thought, still rising from sleep, was that I was in London, hearing the night-time siren of an ambulance or a police car. Closer to the surface, I remembered that I was no longer in London and instead thought that I was listening to an Indian ambulance or police car, which on almost breaking the surface I realized sounded nothing like this, and as I opened my eyes I saw, yes saw is the best way I can describe it, that the sound was not coming in through the window, but in through my door and must originate from inside the house.

An accident, something, but it wasn’t Madhuri. I had heard her scream, once — January 30, 1948, when she heard on the wireless that Gandhi was dead — and she had sounded nothing like this.

But it was a female scream, and not a girl’s: a woman’s. And that, finally, now that I was fully awake, left only Harriet.

I jumped out of my bed and onto cool tiles, so welcome to my feet — this firmness of real Indian floors — as I ran to her room.

I found Harriet sitting upright in her bed, sheets wrapped around her, and filling her room with scream, staring with wide-open eyes at the floor and the, oh, at a guess, eight or nine cobras hovering there.

Madhuri appeared next, hand against the jamb, sleepy, angry.

“So this is the famous one,” said Attra, whom I recognized by the white mark on his hood. He sounded unimpressed.

“Attra,” shouted Madhuri. “Can you not see you’re scaring her out of her wits.”

“I see a sleepy screamer,” he answered, a little disappointed.

“Take the brainless twine you’ve brought and get out of here,” she hissed. And she was angry indeed. I’d rarely seen her this upset, especially with her snakes: her eyes flashed with each word, especially with twine — probably the worst thing you can call a cobra, at least in company.

Attra glared back, but said nothing in return. Instead he hissed a command to the retinue who fell in as he headed for the door. Then they were gone, leaving Jiddu’s room once again snakeless.

“I am sorry, so sorry,” said Madhuri. And she was.

Harriet did not hear. She was still staring at the floor, still seeing Attra and friends, their heads swaying above bed level watching her, tongues darting in and out like little sensors, smelling her.

“So very sorry,” Madhuri said again.

“Harriet,” I said. “Harriet.”

She finally broke her stare and looked up at me. “Harriet. It’s fine. They are not dangerous. Not in this house.”

She stared at me, as pale as the sheet around her shoulders. Then at last Madhuri and I saw recognition and sentience return to her eyes.

“Pets?” she asked, I think of Madhuri.

When Madhuri didn’t answer — I don’t think she quite understood Harriet’s question — I said “No. Not pets. Just friends. They heard you were here.”

“They came to look at me?” She was quite incredulous.

“Yes,” I said. “But Madhuri has told them off.”

Harriet shook her head and searched for words. “Told them off?”

“Yes,” I said. “Attra, he’s the large, darkish one, brought his hangers-on to look at you.”

“So sorry,” said Madhuri again. “Are you all right now?”

Harriet brushed her hair back with her hand and looked at her. “Will they come back?” she asked.

“No,” said Madhuri. “I will make sure they don’t.”

“I would…,” Harriet said, “I would appreciate that. Very much.” There was some sarcasm mixed in with that, but not enough for Madhuri to notice, at least I don’t think she noticed.

“Tea?” Madhuri asked.

“What time is it?” asked Harriet.

I looked at my watchless wrist — I remove my watch before I go to sleep — then at the shuttered window. But the room was light, so morning then. “Almost eight,” said Madhuri. “You’ve slept almost sixteen hours.”

“Tea?” said Harriet. “Yes, thanks. Yes,” Apparently collected again. Or on her way.

“You really can talk to them,” said Harriet at tea. We were in the salon, sitting on pillows by the low table. Madhuri was serving her finest tea in her finest cups. The floor shone from cleaning; the table sparkled, as did the china.

“Yes,” said Madhuri. “I can. And so can Nachiketa.”

“I have seen him do that,” said Harriet. Then said, more to herself, “Or maybe I dreamed all that.”

“They were no dreams,” said Madhuri.

“You know this?” said Harriet.

“Yes,” said Madhuri.

“How did you learn?” asked Harriet, looking over at me. I made no sign that I had heard, intent on my tea and my memories.

“I taught him,” said Madhuri.

Madhuri once told me that Attra was hatched the day I was born, which would make him over thirty-three years old. That’s old for a cobra, that’s old for any snake. But I think she’s right — and, of course, she would not lie to me — for I remember Attra as a younger, lighter-skinned snake as I grew up in this house. And it was Attra who suffered through my many months of butchering his language after Madhuri had taught me the rudiments.

“The way to really learn how to talk to them is to talk to them,” she said, and called for Attra.

Attra was happy to help. He owed Madhuri a favor — and more than just a favor, Attra owed her his life. This had happened when I was a baby, if either of them is to be entirely believed on this point. While Madhuri does not lie, she can embellish; and Attra, he can say anything that pops into that snaky head of his, true or false (though never deceitfully, he just likes stories, and always happily admits to his fantasies if challenged). In this case, however, I have to admit, their stories, though strange, corroborate.

According to which: Attra was a year old then, in the dry summer of 1929. He had followed Madhuri on her weekly gathering of wild herbs and spices in the outlying fields and light woods, a mile or so beyond the edge of town. They talked as she gathered, of this and that, Madhuri telling him about the two worlds, the one of men and the one of snakes. About friends and enemies, and about Attra’s heritage. About Esh, Attra’s great-great-and-many-times-greater-yet-grandfather who lived not so far away, yet very far away.

“How can that be?” asked Attra. “Very far away but not so far away.”

Madhuri unfurled and stretched her back. The sun was climbing quickly into a cloudless sky. It was going to be another warm day.

“How can that be?” asked Attra again, who has never been known for his patience.

“If you cannot get to it, no matter how close, then it is far away,” she answered.

“So, he lives nearby?” he asked.

“I did not say that,” answered Madhuri.

“But you said…,” began Attra.

“I know what I said.”

“But you said…,” Attra dug in (he has never been known for letting go of a question easily either).

“I said that if you cannot get to it, any place, not necessarily Esh’s place, then it might as well be far away.”

“Yes, but you meant his place,” he said.

“Did I?” said Madhuri, a little surprised.

“Didn’t you?”

To which she didn’t reply.

“Tell me more about him,” he asked.

She stooped down again to continue her gathering. She had found a wonderful patch of kunkuma which would make fine turmeric, and she wanted to bring as much of it as she could back to the house. Attra moved in front of her so he could see her face as she talked.

“What have I told you already?” she asked, not without a little weariness.

“That he is a hundred hundred years old,” Attra started out gaily, taking no notice whatever of Madhuri’s wish to rest her tongue for a while. “That he is the father of all snakes in our land. That he knows where we came from. That he knows magic. That he has ridden Athansor. That he has a thousand wives and a million children. That he knew Lord Krishna.”

“Yes,” said Madhuri. “That’s Esh.”

“And, yes,” remembered Attra, “that he always answers a question if the asker truly wants an answer.”

“Yes,” repeated Madhuri. “That’s about it. That sums him up.”

“Tell me more about him,” said Attra, oblivious to hints.

“There’s not much more to tell.”

“Tell me more about him,” said Attra, as if he had never said that before.

Madhuri gave in.

“When Esh was young,” she began after a deep breath and an inward smile, “not much older than you are now, his name was not Esh. He was called Bashkar then, for he was always happy, the light in his parents’ eyes.”

“Why Bashkar?”

“Because it means the sun, always shining somewhere.”

“It sets at night.”

“That’s only because the world turns away from the sun. The sun still shines.”

“It is the sun that moves, everyone can see that.”

“Do you want to hear about Esh or not?”

Attra fell silent, but Madhuri knew that now she would have to explain the solar system in some detail before long: Attra never seemed to forget a question, or let go of one, once he had asked it.

“He was called Bashkar then, for he was always happy,” Madhuri said again. “Always shining. A little like you, Attra.”

Attra rippled with pleasure at the comparison, for he could be not a little vain at times.

“They said he had a hundred sisters,” continued Madhuri.

“One mother cannot lay that many eggs.”

“There were many mothers.”

“But Esh only had one mother.”

“Yes, Esh only had one mother.”

“So, not really sisters then, half-sisters some, yes?”

“Will you let me tell this tale?”

“Yes.”

“I would just as happily rest my tongue,” she added.

“I promise.”

“Well, then. He had a hundred sisters.”

“But his favorite was Heera,” said Attra.

“How do you know that? You have heard this story before, have you? I have told you this tale already?”

“I don’t know,” said Attra. “You haven’t told it yet. But you have told me about Heera, his favorite sister.”

“Perhaps in another tale,” she said.

“Yes, perhaps,” he answered.

Madhuri uncurled and stretched again, her back not so much sore as stiff from staying bent over. Before she returned to the green and yellow leaves, she caught a glimpse of a distant speck high in the sky, so far away that she thought little of it.

Stooped again, she continued her story:

“Heera was the most beautiful of snakes. Her scales shone like the diamonds from which she got her name. Her eyes were clear and quick, her tongue was dark and strong, and she could spread her hood wider and with more ease than any of her siblings.”

“Except for Esh, right?”

“Except for Bashkar,” she answered.

“Yes,” he reminded himself. “Bashkar.”

“But if Bashkar was curious and restless — and he was — then Heera was twice as curious, and four times as restless. This was not very girl-like, of course, not befitting a young lady, to slip around the woods and fields and outskirts of villages to see what could be seen, and her parents frowned upon it. In fact, they would not let her slip about on her own. But they would let her go with Bashkar. For one thing, Bashkar was a little older, though not by much, and he was also longer, and stronger — there to help her should the need arise.”

Madhuri cast another glance up at the sky, at the speck she had noticed, but could not find it again, at first. Then she caught it, higher now, but closer. A bird, then. Large and surveying the land.

Then she continued. “Leaving home on one of their expeditions, Bashkar would lead the way and Heera would slip behind him, following demurely, like a proper lady should, but once they were out of sight, she would glide up to him and overtake him, making a race of it.

“Although Bashkar was longer, and stronger, he was not faster — no snake was faster than Heera — and it was all he could do to keep up. She even made a show of slowing down to wait for him now and then, something which did hurt his pride.

“This one morning we’re talking about, she was playing the same trick on him, speeding so far ahead that she had to wait for him, and Bashkar twice arrived by her side to see her smiling with delight at beating her brother.

“That’s when Bashkar decided to teach her a lesson. He watched Heera speed away again, through the trees, around the stones, under the moss and twigs, faster than water. But now, instead of following her, he took a different route, sliding to the left and away, and then, as fast as he could, speeding in a big semi-circle to catch his waiting sister from ahead of her the next time she stopped to wait for him.”

Attra was still now, all attention. He could sense trouble in the story, and he did not like trouble in his stories. He had stopped moving, and had instead stretched out full length, head raised and eyes still, watching Madhuri, her lips and tongue, as the story fell out of her and onto him.

“As I said, Bashkar was not as fast as Heera, but he was by no means slow — he was very fast indeed — and now he sped like a javelin to intercept Heera’s path farther up ahead, so he could sneak back upon her.

“When he judged that he had raced far enough, he veered to his right and then waited. When he heard nothing, he slowly eased his way back to meet and catch her. She must have stopped again by now, waiting for him, he thought. He could picture her, proud and teasing. He stopped again to listen. Not a slither, just the whispers of the forest, the birds and the mice and the lizards, and butterflies, and the million other creatures that never cease to move around. But there was no sound of a moving snake.

“So he glided farther back toward where she must lie in wait for him, expecting to see her at any moment. But there was no sight of her. He stopped to listen again.

Nothing. No movements. Surely, she was waiting for him. Very quietly.

“Then there were many movements at once, the most hated of all movements to a snake’s ear.”

Madhuri glanced at Attra, who normally would have said something, but who now, filled with concern, said nothing, waiting for the next word. Madhuri also cast another glance into the sky and saw the eagle clearly now, high up, but closer still. The thought crossed her mind to warn Attra about him, but she dismissed the notion. What eagle would dare to alight this close to a human? None that she had ever heard of.

“A mongoose. No, Bashkar listened again, there was the rustle of more than one. Could be two, could be three.

“He slid quickly toward the sound, filled suddenly with foreboding. They may be hunting, and Heera was not far away.

“It was this concern for her that made him miss the mongoose on his right, which attacked out of nowhere, like black lightning that suddenly drove teeth through his hood.

“It did not hurt at first, it was just like so much added, furious weight to his neck, then the pain spread, quickly and with purpose. Bashkar tossed his neck up so strongly and quickly that the mongoose, teeth still in his hood, sailed up and away, ripping a mouthful of scales out of him.

“The mongoose, back on the ground, hissed and screamed fury at prey. Bashkar got a better look now. He was large, and strong, and quick, this one. This was to be a life and death affair.

“That’s when he heard Heera’s shout. She was not more than half a short field away, but she was in trouble. She shouted his name over and over again, shouted for her life, and as Bashkar sped towards her, the mongoose raced behind him, ripping twice at his tail with sharp claws. Once, the mongoose got a better grip with both paws on his back, a deep and painful hold, but again Bashkar managed to shake him loose, intent not on fighting, but on helping Heera.

“Then he saw her, bleeding from several tears and bites, facing two of these loathed creatures, one nipping again at her tail and one staring back at her in defiance and daring. Bashkar shouted at her that he was here, that he was coming, hold on, but then his own pursuer was on top of him again, teeth hard and sharp, deep in his neck. He tried to shake him off, but could not. He tried to reach him with his fangs, but the grip was too close to his head.

“Heera cried out again, this time in pain, and Bashkar glimpsed a deadly hold at his sister’s throat by one of her attackers. The second one leaped from behind and tore her back. His own attacker relaxed for a moment, perhaps with an eye to the other battle, or perhaps to find a fresh target for his teeth. Either way, it was long enough to allow Bashkar to spin away and twist himself to the side of the mongoose — and, like an arrow, to bury his fangs in his belly, furiously pumping his attacker with venom. The mongoose shivered and was still even before he could turn, overwhelmed by death.

“Bashkar lunged down the little hill to where his sister did battle, but he was too late. The two mongooses, seeing him coming, and realizing that he had killed the third, backed off from Heera’s body — still shivering with the chill of death — and watched Bashkar with yellow, hateful eyes.

“Bashkar was torn. One voice, filled with blood, wanted to kill them both, but another voice, not so violent, knew that at best he could only reach one of them. But it was love, the third voice, that spoke the loudest. He had to rush to Heera’s side, to make sure, to see if there was any life left to revive, to call back, to plead with.

“He rippled twice and was by her side. Her eyes were open, but lifeless. She was bleeding from her throat and from four wounds on her back. Her tongue was as still as night, and he knew that she had left. He faced the two mongooses again, who did not know whether to attack or escape. Bashkar rose and spread his hood and the two, moving closer to each other, perhaps for comfort, perhaps for conference, backed off at the sight of his anger.

“Then he did something he did not know he could: he spit venom at the closer of the two and hit his eye, effectively blinding him. The mongoose screamed and fell, shaking as the poison worked its way through the eye and into the blood, soon to leave a dead mongoose behind. At this, the last of the dark devils slipped off into the undergrowth and Bashkar turned back to his sister.

“She looked peaceful now, but it was as if her empty eyes were looking right at him, as if she wondered where he had gone to, why he wasn’t there to help her. And Bashkar, who was to become Esh, knew that he had killed his sister with his pride; that he had let her teasing smile stir his envy at being the slower, had let it bruise his vanity, had let it kill her. And Bashkar rose again, and spread his hood wider than ever before, showing clearly the missing mouthful he had lost to his own assailant, and he screamed his grief to the heavens and to the woods, and to the spirits who at this moment prepared to receive his sister. And on the air that carried his lament, his pride and envy left as well. He aged many years in his rending grief. He became Esh.”

She looked at Attra, who had not moved. Still as a stick, eyes fixed on her, tongue motionless, all ears. He had not noticed that she had stopped: still stunned by the tale.

Madhuri was just about to make sure that the eagle was not a threat when he struck: swooped down out of nowhere and materialized in a flash of claw and feather and caught Attra by the tail, and as quickly lifted again for the sky. Attra screamed, no words, just his panic. Madhuri tried to understand what she was seeing when Attra screamed again, and now from pain as well, which told him of the grip of talons around and through his tail. And he screamed again.

Madhuri knew only one thing: she must not look away, she must not lose sight of the bird and the snake. She knew well that should they fly high enough and should she then lose sight of them momentarily, she might not find them again, having nothing but space to guide her focus. So, her face remained skyward, eyes fixed on the soaring bird, while she gently unshouldered her bag and eased it to the ground. Then she took one step in the direction of the bird, then another, while not for a moment breaking visual contact with him.

Then another step, her feet doing the looking at ground level, and then another, and now she was walking, leaving her feet to their own devices. Then she was running, while her eyes never left the bird. Then she was running like she had never run before, her feet startlingly aware of rocks and bushes and paths and ponds, of obstacles of all sorts, and either leaping over or running around them. When asked by Nachiketa to explain later, she would only smile.

The bird was now only a speck in the sky and showed no sign of descent, growing smaller still.

Her feet leaped a small stream and then, somehow, simply neglected to land on the other side, and instead kept running — a foot, sometimes two, above the ground — gathering speed.

And gathering speed, as the speck that was Attra in the grip of an eagle grew perceptively larger.

And she flew over field and stream, and past astonished deer and monkeys, into the foothills of a small mountain. And now the speck of one had become two again, those of bird and snake, and they were now descending. Faster she flew, up among trees, up over trees so as not to lose sight, and then the bird alighted, high in a tall peepal tree many miles away: but miles were only a morsel for her new legs and feet. She was there by the time the eagle dropped Attra into the nest among his brood of hungry chicks.

Madhuri climbed, or scaled, ascended the peepal tree in less than a breath, and before the eagle or any of its hungry brood had much chance to notice, let alone react, she had caught Attra just behind the head and pulled him out of the nest. Then she fell out of the tree, snake in hand and not softly, as if all air had suddenly departed a much heavier-than-air balloon.

She bruised herself hitting the ground, but not injuriously. Attra, still terrified, survived the fall as well.

The eagle, realizing now what had happened, and being quick to anger, prepared to strike again, and this time at Madhuri as well.

At which point she spoke in a tongue she had not used before, and has not used since.

“This snake, brother eagle, is not yours to eat. He is my charge, by Esh’s wish, and though I know your brood is hungry, I ask that you understand.”

The eagle, as stunned as Madhuri at hearing her mouth speak the tongue of eagles, took his time in answering, finally: “My father’s father knew Esh. His will be done.” Then he took off for other prey.

It took Madhuri and Attra the better part of a week to make their way back to her house. She carried him most of the way, nursing him back to health with clear water and herbs (which he detested — who’s ever heard of a vegetarian snake, he said — but was too tired to refuse). She even found her bag of kunkuma, now nicely dried, by the patch where the eagle had struck.

When she reached her house, Chanda and Gomati, Attra’s two sisters saw them coming and, both speaking at the same time, asked the same question: What happened? What happened?

“Please fetch him some food,” said Madhuri, which meant, go kill some mice and bring them.

Again they wanted to know what had happened.

“Now,” said Madhuri, not pleased with them. So they did, and once Attra had eaten and fallen asleep, she told his sisters about their adventure.

Three days later, Attra was none the worse for wear. A little less brash perhaps — and a scratch or two along with a talon’s scar on his back — but other than that, he was back to his old — our young — self.

Madhuri poured us more tea, then rose for the kitchen. She soon returned with sweetmeats — all of which she had baked herself, of course: she was a master.

Harriet thanked her, chose one and took a small bite. Her face lit up. “Gosh,” she said, surprised, and using a word I had never heard her use before. “These are delicious.”

Madhuri smiled and nodded.

“We have our own Karins here,” I said to Harriet.

“What did you say?” said Madhuri.

I told her about Karin and her baking. “Ah,” she said. “We conquer palates everywhere.”

“What is this?” said Harriet, still too delighted with the pastry to let go. “How do you make them?”

“That, my dear, is a secret,” she answered. I knew she meant it, and so did Harriet.

“Well, they are very, very good,” said Harriet. At which Madhuri smiled again, at Harriet’s delight, at her own secret.

Then Madhuri turned all business. “Your eyes,” she said to Harriet. “Forgive me please, but they are hard, they are like small stones. Tell me, why are you so unhappy?”

Harriet didn’t quite know what to do with that question. She was seldom flustered by a question, but this time she was. She took another bite of the pastry, was about to say something else about it, but changed her mind. She then put the remainder down on her small gold-edged plate, where it crumbled a little. She looked at her hands. Then she looked up at Madhuri, slowly, with a long silent glance. Her eyes struck me as young again, beautiful again, but as if to prove Madhuri right, they were also like hard and defensive stones.

“How is that any business of yours?” she finally said.

“I am your mother-in-law,” Madhuri answered.

“Jiddu and I never married.”

“I know that.”

“Still, you have no right.”

“I know that, too. Yes. So forgive me, please, but I am curious. And please to humor an old woman. Tell me Yashawini, how is it that a goddess can manage to grow unhappy.”

The shiny stones that were her eyes now averted Madhuri’s face and found other objects of their own, unseeable by us. Then Harriet took a deep breath and said, meaning it, “She works hard at it.”

“Are you sure it is your dream, Siddhi Sapna?”

“It is,” she answered.

“But you are afraid of my wishes,” said Madhuri.

Harriet looked up at her again, surprised. “No, no I am not.,” She answered. “I am afraid of my wishes.”

“Yes, yes,” said Madhuri, “that you are.”

“They come true.”

“Yes, I know.”

“But, you are right,” said Harriet, answering a question Madhuri had not asked, at least not to my ears, “I never did want a child.”

“No,” said Madhuri, “he was my wish.”

“I don’t regret that,” she said.

“I can see that,” said Madhuri. “I can see that now. But I had to see for myself.”

Then — it was as if something that had been strung very taut, and for some time, suddenly relaxed — I felt a ripple of kindness in the air. Madhuri cast a glance at me, as if to see if I had noticed. Harriet smiled too, relieved — at being found innocent, I thought. Innocent of what, though, I wondered.

“I would never wish him dead,” said Harriet. “I would never do that.”

“I can see that,” said Madhuri again.

Harriet picked at the remainder of her pastry, tried to get a delicate hold on it, but it crumbled from pastry to pile under her touch.

“Here,” said Madhuri, “have another one,” and offered her the plate.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, and yes,” said Madhuri with an affected casualness so transparent it made Harriet smile, “Esh would like to meet you.”

“That is your name for Athansor?” said Harriet.

“Oh, goodness, no. Esh is a snake.”

Harriet looked at me, a little alarmed, then back at Madhuri. “I think I’ve had enough of snakes for a while,” she said.

“I would not advise you to turn down his invitation,” said Madhuri, smiling still, but now with a little edge to it. “Especially not in India. There are too many snakes around.”

“What do you mean?” said Harriet.

“Esh is the king of snakes. Any snake will do his bidding.” Not quite a threat.

“Then I guess I had better go see him,” said Harriet.

© Wolfstuff