The audience gasped again, one woman letting out a faint shriek. It was only when I saw myself in the recording, trying desperately to control the horse Midnight, that I realized there was something seriously wrong with what I was seeing. When this had actually happened, I had been sitting on Midnight behind Neel, and it had been Neel who had been controlling the skittish horse. I hadn’t ever ridden any sort of horse before, nonetheless a flying one, but in the video, it somehow looked like I was controlling Midnight all by myself. And Neel was nowhere to be seen.
“Wait a minute, something’s not right,” I began, and Ms. Twinkle Chakraborty batted her heavily mascara’d eyes at me with sympathy. “I knoo it’s not. Your adopted parents had just been killed, their boones crushed to the size of ice cream sprinkles. You had noo idea who you really were, and you had just met the gallant Prince Lal—who was in the process of making you fall head over heels in lurve with him.”
“No, my parents weren’t killed, and their boones—I mean, their bones—are just fine,” I protested. “They were swallowed whole and whisked away to this dimension. And Prince Lal never … I mean lurve is really not what our relationship is about.”
Ms. Twinkle put a long-nailed hand over my mouth. “Shhh, darling, shhh … I know this footage must bring up terrible memooroos, but it will all be all right. Lurve will mend your brooken heart.”
“But,” I began again, as soon as she removed her hand, and she quickly replaced it, patting me all over my face in a bizarre attempt to shut me up while not looking like she was shutting me up.
“Mrph … blargh … mraph,” I protested
“Shhh, there, there, sweet child,” she countered, then louder, “There! There!” She was practically slapping my face now with her open palm.
I shut up, but what I saw next on the footage was so outrageously false, I almost started shouting again. The video showed Lal single-handedly fighting the rakkhosh, then rescuing me from its clutches. Of course, what had really happened was that the demon knocked Lal unconscious and I had rescued him. Then Neel had come in and rescued me when I was in trouble. But I saw none of that happen on-screen. Instead, I saw myself swoon in Lal’s arms as he carried me off on Snowy’s back. I also saw myself double back to stand on top of the now unconscious rakkhosh’s head, delivering a bloody death blow with a long-handled sword. This was a total lie, of course, because I’d never actually killed any monsters—rakkhosh or otherwise. I’d fought them, outwitted them, out riddled them, sure, but killed? No. Yet the recording looked so ridiculously real, I almost believed this alternative version of the truth myself.
“Wait a minute, that never happened. I don’t even know how to use a sword very well,” I sputtered. “And where’s Neel? Why isn’t he anywhere in the video?”
Ms. Twinkle let out a giant sigh, then looked at the camera and made a throat-slashing motion. “Cut!” called the director. After the video screen flashed with a sign that said WE R X-SPEERYUNSING TECKNICAL DIFFICOOLTIES, my interviewer jumped to her feet, her fake smile dropping from her lips.
“I cannoot work like this!” Her voice was super different now, not dripping with honey but sharp and barbed. She ripped off her lapel microphone and threw it down. “Unprofessional! Bloody amatoors! Who prepped this sad excuse for a princess? Who’s responsible for her toorrible answers?”
“I was just trying to tell the truth.” But Twinkle’s voice was so shrill she just talked right over me. “She made me look like a fewell! I refuse to be upstooged on my own shoow!”
The news anchor swept out of the room, her assistant and entourage in tow. Minister Gupshup jumped up from the audience and dashed after the enraged woman, shooting me an evil look as he ran past. I sat there in the studio chair, feeling stunned. What had just happened?
“Don’t fret, Kiran, she’s like that to all her guests.” Lal came into the studio and sat in the bucket chair where Ms. Twinkle Chakraborty had just been sitting.
“Hey!” I leaned in to give him a hug, and the entire studio audience, who was still there, went “Awwww.”
“Let’s get out of here, huh? I’ve got to talk to you about something really important.”
“Excellent suggestion,” said Lal, ushering me offstage. To which the entire studio audience went, “Oooooo,” in a really embarrassing singsong way.
I felt myself heating up and saw that Lal’s face was beet red too.
As soon as we were fully offstage, though, Lal leaned very close to me. Way too close for comfort. For a second, I actually thought with alarm that he had somehow bought into the lie about our so-called romance. But he just put his mouth near my ear and whispered, “We’ve got to get Neel out of detention as soon as we can!”
I waited a bit before following Lal out into the palace gardens. I was happy enough not to walk out of the studios together. Too much chance for more silly gossip about us. Here too were the giant posters of Lal and me. Where once had been beautiful carved images of peacocks and lions and flowers, the marble walls of the palace were now covered with gaudy movie-poster-style images. The size you see at an amusement park or something. Lal and I fighting side by side, Lal and I flying on Snowy and Raat, Lal and I laughing over a snack of roadside shingaras served by a smiling, mustachioed vendor as a bunch of happy villagers swirl in a happy, festive dance all around us. The posters seemed so realistic they almost fooled even me. But like in all the other images I’d seen, Neel had been entirely cut out of the picture.
Even though there were so many giant images of Lal, I couldn’t see the real prince anywhere. But at least there weren’t any camera crew people hanging around either. I sat down on a rock by a small fish pond to wait for my friend.
It was almost evening, which meant the heat was actually tolerable, and the moon was just making herself seen in the sky. I breathed the heavy scent of night-blooming jasmine and realized I was sitting next to a bush about to burst with the tiny white flowers.
And then, looking down at my moon mother’s reflection in the tiny pond, I had the strangest feeling. Like I was able to connect to something greater than myself. Something shimmered in the pond, almost like a screen coming to life. That’s when I heard it, the voice. It was Neel.
“Kiran! I told you not to come to the Kingdom Beyond! What are you doing in the palace gardens?”
“Neel?” I hissed, halfway convinced this was some kind of trick Gupshup and the Who Wants to Be a Demon Slayer? producers were playing on me. But then, at another shimmer of my mother’s reflection in the pond, I realized what must be going on.
“How can I hear you? Is the moon connecting us somehow?” I remembered the last time I’d been sitting in the moonlight—in my living room in Parsippany—and that feeling that had come over me then. Like I was in a prison cell. I had the same cold and clammy feeling now, even though the evening air was actually pretty warm.
“Must be. She’s pretty powerful,” said Neel. “When I look up at the moon through the cell window, I can see you reflected there.” He cleared his throat before adding, “Why do you look so different? What in the khokkosh spit are you wearing? Is that green lipstick?”
I bit down my irritation. “I got made up by the TV game show team, okay? I guess they didn’t think my regular look was good enough.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. No need to get all touchy,” said Neel’s disembodied voice. “You look … nice.”
“I’m not touchy!” I snapped. “And I don’t need your pity compliments!” I squinted up from the reflection in the pool to the actual shining moon in the sky. I couldn’t see Neel even though he seemed to be able to see me. It made me feel kind of weird and exposed. Not unlike, I suppose, being on this ridiculous game show.
“Don’t be all defensive—” started Neel.
“Listen,” I cut him off. “Are you okay? Last time I saw you, Bogli looked like she was going to take a bite out of your head!”
“Well, she didn’t. I’m all right, I guess. Fine, I mean,” said Neel, not v
ery convincingly. Then he went on, “Kiran, you’ve got to listen to me. I meant what I said, you can’t help me. You’re just going to make it worse. Go home! Like, right now!”
I felt the guilt rising in my chest again. The guilt from it being my fault that Neel was in demon detention. He obviously thought it was my fault too, which is why he was so mad at me. “Whatever, dude. I mean, give it a rest with the bitter, all right? I’ve already joined the contest.” I rubbed my arms to get warm. “We have a plan to get you out. Just hang tight!”
“Kiran, I told you, don’t!” Neel sputtered in my head. “Go home to New Jersey!”
I was just about to lose my temper with Neel-in-my-head, but I couldn’t. Because just then, from around the corner of the studios, came two cameras, their lights focused on me. And with them came the cheesy anchor Suman Rahaman, his hair all pompadoured up with gel, his T-shirt straining over his chest muscles.
“Princess Demon Slayer! All alone I see! Could it be that you’re waiting for the Crown Prince Lalkamal?”
“What?” shouted Neel. “I told you not to trust my brother!”
“Um, yes, actually.” I tried to ignore Neel’s voice and smiled stiffly into the cameras. It was so weird. Now that I knew I was on TV, I couldn’t figure out how to smile normally, couldn’t figure out what to do with my hands.
“Well, surprise! He’s not coming!” shouted the anchorman. “This is actually the beginning of your first round of competition in the multiverse’s favorite game show—Who. Wants. To. Be. A. Demon Slayer?”
Then, just as Mati had said, there appeared, out of nowhere, a harmonium floating in midair. I couldn’t see the hands that played the small set of keyboards or pumped the accordion bellows. The magic harmonium not only played itself, but sang too. The Bengali song sounded vaguely familiar. “Aguner poroshmoni …” it warbled in a slightly off-key but very melodramatic baritone. The part that struck me about the song, though, was something about stars illuminating the darkness. Poroshmoni was the name of the Raja’s yellow jewel, and this line about stars in the song made me all the more convinced—was I right about these twin jewels really being neutron stars?
My thoughts were interrupted by the anchor dude shouting at me again. As he began to speak, the harmonium disappeared. “Before you begin on your first challenge, I have just one question for you, Princess Demon Slayer. Are you ready to fulfill your heroic destiny?”
“No! Say no!” shouted not-there-Neel in my head. “Don’t play their games! Don’t follow their rules! They’ve made the contest for you to lose!”
“Um, yes?” I said, shielding my eyes from the moonlight. “Cut it out!” I hissed to Neel through gritted teeth.
“I’m sorry, Princess, did you say something?” Sooms stuck his microphone in my face again.
“Just that I can’t wait!” I fudged, super conscious of how close the cameras were to my face.
“Fan-tas-tic!” shouted the anchorman. “Just remember, act naturally, like you’re not on camera! And whatever you do—don’t break the fourth wall!”
“The what?”
Suman Rahaman smoothed back his gelled hair with ringed fingers. “Just ignore the fact that the cameras, or the audience, are there. Don’t ruin the game show experience for our viewers, just keep acting like there’s nobody else there!”
And then the anchor was gone. Thank goodness I had the sense to look at the cameramen, because I realized they had both pulled out poofy silk sleep masks and put them on, like it was naptime. Only, they still had their cameras on their shoulders and were still standing up. Wait, of course! Mati had warned me that Sesha employed a lot of witches and ghosts in his game show. And I knew perfectly well from my extensive reading of The Adventurer’s Guide that the way that ghosts trapped your soul was when you looked at them after they called your name. Quickly, I pulled out my copy of K. P. Das’s book from my pocket and flipped to the right page:
Petni, Shakchunni, and Other Ghosts of the Female Persuasion
Residence: Tamarind or similar trees. Unless died by drowning, in which case, live in bodies of water like lakes or ponds.
Desire: To capture a woman or girl’s soul and trap it in a tree trunk. Then to live in her body and take over her life. Souls are forfeit for the taking when a victim turns at the sound of their name. Also, to eat a lot of fish, but avoid paying for said fish. Plus, bizarre interest in riddles and logical puzzles. Riddles are the only thing ghosts treat with honor. Also, they cannot resist a challenge.
Anatomy: Feet often face backward. Additionally, have extendible and/or flammable arms and legs. Often caught out when they use said extendible arms to pluck a lemon from a tree instead of walking out to the tree. Alternately, when they light their feet on fire to cook the morning rice, having been too lazy to obtain proper firewood in a timely and humanlike manner.
Vulnerabilities: Can only call a human being up to two times. Also, iron and steel are terrifying to them. They’re not terribly bright, and so have been tricked into being trapped into small containers and the like.
As I closed the book, I heard a chilling, nasal voice. I was right—it was a lady ghost. “Should we drink your blood or catch your soul, child? Maybe both! Let’s live! Be wild!”
I froze in place, my eyes squeezed shut. Because I knew perfectly well that looking at a ghost face-to-face while it was calling me would make my soul forfeit for the taking. I turned around, my back toward the direction of the ghostly voices.
“Kiranmala! Come! Why do you loiter here in a land not your own?” a ghost cackled, making annoying kissy noises in the air.
A different voice screeched, “Seeing Lal is her only wish! But listen, yo, we need some fish!”
Ugh, this nonsense about Lal again. I wanted to scream at them to shut up, but I knew not to fall for the bait. The voices were coming from all around, it seemed. Each ghost only had two tries to get me to turn around, but how could I know which one of them had called how many times?
But wait a minute, I had some backstage help. “Neel?” I hissed under my breath. “Are you still there? Can you see the ghost ladies? Can you tell me which one’s called me how many times?”
When Neel didn’t answer, I hissed out his name again. One of the petni must have heard me, because she shrieked, “Who do you whisper to, oh princess dear? Just turn and tell me! Have no fear!”
I felt the panic rising in me. I couldn’t hear Neel’s voice anymore, so he wasn’t going to be any help. I peered into the pond to see if I could see his reflection. But in the dim evening light, all I could vaguely see was my own pinched face. But also … wait … I could see the wispy shadows of six, no, seven ghosts behind me—their scrawny, sari-clad bodies, their balding heads, their hunched backs, their backward feet, the radish-like front teeth dangling from their mouths.
The sight of the scary ghost ladies freaked me out so much, I didn’t even think twice. I, like every other kid in the multiverse, had read the story about the kid who killed Medusa by looking in a reflective surface. Looking ahead of me, I aimed my bow up and back. Using only the reflection in the pond as a guide, I took aim at the shadowy figures, firing my arrows over and over. Unfortunately, I was no Perseus. Not only did I not seem to be able to kill the ghosts, my arrows seemed to be tickling them!
“That’s so nice, where your arrow hit! Aim another at my armpit!”
“Princess! Princess! Hit me here! I’m super ticklish by my ear!” they taunted, giggling and laughing.
I fired over my shoulder like that again and again, my moon-magicked quiver refilling with arrows so I could never run out. But what good was it if all I was doing was tickling some obnoxious ghost ladies? Oh, how was I going to get through this test already?
“A riddle!” I blurted out, remembering what K. P. Das wrote about ghosts loving riddles. “If I can solve a riddle, will you go away?”
I heard the ghostly ladies whispering among themselves, debating this option.
“If you solve three riddle
s, then you can roll. But if you can’t, we trap your soul!”
I shivered. What choice had I but to agree? I remembered what Mati had said about making sure I got through the first two tests. And besides, having my soul trapped in a tree trunk and a ghost take over my body seemed like a real bummer of an option.
“Fine,” I said, keeping my back turned to the ghosts. “Three riddles and then you go!”
“Tell me, Princess, if you’re so dashed slick,” asked one of the nasal, ghostly voices. “What’s so delicate, even speaking its name will break it?”
This one was easy. I’d heard this riddle from Zuzu’s brother Niko a million times.
“What’s so delicate even saying its name destroys it?” I repeated. “Silence, of course. If you say its name, you break it.”
I heard the ladies grumbling, and consulting each other. “That was a practice one!” snarled someone.
“No,” I said reasonably, as if it was totally normal to be standing outside a palace arguing with a bunch of riddling ghosts all the while being filmed for intergalactic TV. “That was the first riddle, you have two more you can ask me.”
There was some more grumbling, and then some whispered discussion. I heard a ghost say, “That one! She’ll never get it since it’s in Bangla!” before her sisters shushed her again. And then another one of the ladies cackled in a louder voice, “Tell me, Kiranmala, and don’t you quibble, which kind of land has no people?”
I bit my lip. I didn’t know this one, but still it did sound strangely familiar. Along with stories about rakkhosh and serpents, Baba was always telling me riddles. Most of them were Bengali wordplays. For instance, he usually broke out one of his favorite riddles around Halloween, when he and Ma used to make me wear a sari and be an “Indian princess.”
Game of Stars Page 13
