We rounded a corner. Two things happened at the same time. Heer shouted “Down!” and as I dived for the smooth marble, I glimpsed a swarm of monkey-machines bounding toward me, clinging to walls and ceiling. I covered my head and cried out with every shot as Heer fired and fired and fired until the gas-cell canister clanged to the floor.
“They hacked into them and reprogrammed them. Faithless, betraying things. Come on.” The smooth, manicured hand reached for me, and I remember only shards of noise and light and dark and bodies until I found myself in the backseat of a fast German car, Heer beside me, gun cradled like a baby. I could smell hot electricity from the warm weapon. Doors slammed. Locks sealed. Engine roared.
“Where to?”
“The Hijra Mahal.”
As we accelerated through the gate, more monkey-robots dropped from the naqqar khana. I heard their steel lives crack and burst beneath our wheels. One clung to the door, clawing at the window frame until the driver veered and scraped it off on a streetlight.
“Heer . . .”
Inside, it was all starting to burst, to disintegrate into the colors and visions and sounds and glances of the night. My father my head my brothers my head my mother my family my head my head my head.
“It’s all right,” the nute said, taking my hand in yts. “You’re safe. You’re with us now.”
The house of Jodhra, which had endured for a thousand years, fell, and I came to the house of the nutes. It was pink, as all the great buildings of Jaipur were pink, and very discreet. In my life before, as I now thought of it, I must have driven past its alleyway a hundred times without ever knowing the secret it concealed: cool marble rooms and corridors behind a fagade of orioles and turrets and intricately carved windows, courts and tanks and water gardens open only to the sky and the birds. But then the Hijra Mahal had always been a building apart. In another age it had been the palace of the hijras, the eunuchs. The un-men, shunned yet essential to the ritual life of Rajput Jaipur, living in the very heart of the old city, yet apart.
There were six of them: Sul the janampatri seer, astrologer to celebs as far away as the movie boulevards of Mumbai; Dahin the plastic surgeon, who worked on faces on the far side of the planet through remote machines accurate to the width of an atom; Leel the ritual dancer, who performed the ancient Nautch traditions and festival dances; Janda the writer, whom half of India knew as Queen Bitch ofgupshup columnists; Suleyra, whose parties and events were the talk of society from Srinagar to Madurai; and Heer, once khid-mutgar to the House of Jodhra. My six guardians bundled me from the car wrapped in a heavy chador like a Muslim woman and took me to a domed room of a hundred thousand mirror fragments. Their warm, dry hands gently held me on the divan—I was thrashing, raving as the shock hit me—and Dahin the face surgeon deftly pressed an efuser to my arm.
“Hush. Sleep now.”
I woke among the stars. For an instant I wondered if I was dead, stabbed in my sleep by the poison needle of an Azad assassin robot that had scaled the hundred windows of the Jodhra Mahal. Then I saw that they were the mirror shards of the roof, shattering the light of a single candle into a hundred thousand pieces. Heer sat cross-legged on a dhuri by my low bedside.
“How long . . . ?”
“Two days, child.”
“Are they . . . ?”
“Dead. Yes. I cannot lie. Every one.”
But even as the House of Jodhra fell, it struck back like a cobra, its back broken by a stick. Homing missiles, concealed for years, clinging like bats under shop eaves and bus shelters, unfolded their wings and lit their engines and sought out the pheromone profiles of Azad vehicles. Armored Lexuses went up in fireballs in the middle of Jaipur’s insane traffic as they hooted their ways toward the safety of the airport. No safety even there, a Jodhra missile locked on to the company tilt-jet as it lifted off, hooked into the engine intake with its titanium claws until the aircraft reached an altitude at which no one could survive. The blast cast momentary shadows across the sundials of the Jantar Mantar, marking the moment of Jodhra revenge. Burning debris set fires all across the basti slums.
“Are they . . . ?”
“Jahangir and the Begum Azad died in the tilt-jet attack, and our missiles took out much of their board, but their countermeasures held off our attack on their headquarters.”
“Who survived?”
“Their youngest son, Salim. The line is intact.”
I sat up in my low bed, which smelled of sandalwood. The stars were jewels around my head.
“It’s up to me then.”
“Memsahib . . .”
“Don’t you remember what he said, Heer? My father? You are a weapon; never forget that. Now I know what I am a weapon for.”
“Memsahib . . . Padmini.” The first time yt had ever spoken my name. “You are still in shock, you don’t know what you’re saying. Rest. You need rest. We’ll talk in the morning.” Yt touched yts forefinger to yts full lips, then left. When I could no longer hear soft footfalls on cool marble, I went to the door. Righteousness, rage, and revenge were one song inside me. Locked. I heaved, I beat, I screamed. The Hijra Mahal did not listen. I went to the balcony that hung over the alley. Even if I could have shattered the intricate stone jali, it was a ten-meter drop to street level, where the late-night hum of phatphat autorickshaws and taxis was giving way to the delivery drays and cycle-vans of the spice merchants. Light slowly filled up the alley and crept across the floor of my bedroom: by its gathering strength I could read the headlines of the morning editions. WATER WARS: DOZENS DEAD IN CLASH OF THE RAJAS. JAIPUR REELS AS JODHRAS ANNIHILATED. POLICE POWERLESS AGAINST BLOODY VENDETTA.
In Rajputana, now as always, water is life, water is power. The police, the judges, the courts: we owned them. Us, and the Azads. In that we were alike. When gods fight, what mortal would presume to judge?
“A ride in triumph, a fall through a window into love, a marriage, and a mourning?” I asked. “That’s it?”
Sul the astrologer nodded slowly. I sat on the floor of yts observatory. Incense rose on all sides of me from perforated brass censors. At first glance the room was so simple and bare that even a sadhu would have been uncomfortable, but as my eyes grew accustomed to the shadow in which it must be kept to work as a prediction machine, I saw that every centimeter of the bare pink marble was covered in curving lines and Hindi inscriptions, so small and precise they might be the work of tiny gods. The only light came from a star-shaped hole in the domed ceiling: Sul’s star chamber was in the topmost turret of the Hijra Mahal, closest to heaven. As yt worked with yts palmer and made the gestures in the air of the janampatn calculations, I watched a star of dazzling sunlight crawl along an arc etched in the floor, measuring out the phases of the House of Meena. Sul caught me staring at yt, but I had only been curious to see what another nute looked like, close up. I had only ever known Heer. I had not known there could be as many as six nutes in the whole of India, let alone Jaipur. Sul was fat and had unhealthy yellow skin and eyes and shivered a lot as yt pulled yts shawl around yt, though the turret room directly under the sun was stifling hot. I looked for clues to what yt had been before: woman, man. Woman, I thought. I had always thought of Heer as a man—an ex-man, though yt never mentioned the subject. I had always known it was taboo. When you Stepped Away, you never looked back.
“No revenge, no justice?”
“If you don’t believe me, see for yourself.”
Fingers slipped the lighthoek behind my ear and the curving lines on the floor leaped up into mythical creatures studded with stars. Makara the crocodile, Vrishaba the Bull, the twin fishes of Meena: the twelve rashi. Kanya the dutiful daughter. Between them the twenty-seven nakshatars looped and arced, each of them subdivided into four padas; wheels within wheels within wheels, spinning around my head like blades as I sat on Sul’s marble floor.
“You know I can’t make any sense out of this,” I said, defeated by the whirling numbers. Sul leaned forward and gently touched my hand.
“A ride in
triumph, a fall through a window into love, a marriage, and a mourning. Window to widow. Trust me.”
“Young girls are truly beautiful on the inside.” Dahin the dream doctor’s voice came from beyond the bank of glaring surgical lights as the bed on which I lay tilted back. “No pollution, no nasty, dirty hormones. Everything clean and fresh and lovely. Most of the women who come here, I never see any deeper than their skin. It is a rare privilege to be allowed to look inside someone.”
It was midnight in the chrome and plastic surgery in the basement of the Hijra Mahal, a snatched half hour between the last of the consultations (society ladies swathed in veils and chadors to hide their identities) and Dahin hooking into the global web, settling the lighthoek over the visual center in yts brain and pulling on the manipulator gloves connected to surgical robots in theaters half a world away. So gentle, so deft; too agile for any man’s hands. Dahin of the dancing hands.
“Have you found it yet?” I asked. My eyes were watering from the lights. Something in them, something beyond them, was looking into my body and displaying it section by section, organ by organ, on Dahin’s inner vision. Traditionally, the hijras were the only ones allowed to examine the bodies of the zenana women and reported their findings to the doctors outside.
“Found what? Finger lasers? Retractable steel claws? A table-top nuke wired into your tummy?”
“My father said over and over, I’m a weapon, I’m special . . . I will destroy the house of Azad.”
“Cho chweet, if there’s anything there, this would have shown it to me.”
My eyes were watering. I pretended it was the brightness of the light.
“Maybe there’s something . . . smaller, something you can’t see, like . . . bugs. Like a disease.”
I heard Dahin sigh and imagined the waggle of yts head.
“It’ll take a day or two but I can run a diagnostic.” Tippy-tapping by the side of my head. I turned my head and froze as I saw a spider robot no bigger than my thumb move toward my throat. It was a month since the night, but still I was distrustful of robots. I imagined I always would be. I felt a little flicking needle pain in the side of my neck, then the robot moved over my belly. I cringed at the soft spiking of its sharp, precise feet. I said, “Dahin, do you mind me asking, did you do this?”
A short jab of pain in my belly.
“Oh yes, baba. All this, and more. Much, much more. I only work on the outside, the externals. To be like me—to become one of us—you have to go deep, right down into the cells.”
Now the robot was creeping over my face. I battled the urge to sweep it away and crush it on the floor. I was a weapon, I was special. This machine would show me how.
“Woman, man, that’s not a thing easily undone. They take you apart, baba. Everything, hanging there in a tank of fluid. Then they put you back together again. Different. Neither. Better.”
Why, I wanted to ask, why do this thing to yourself? But then I felt a tiny scratch in the corner of my eye as the robot took a scrape from my optic nerve.
“Three days for the test results, baba.”
Three days, and Dahin brought the results to me as I sat in the Peacock Pavilion overlooking the bazaar. The wind was warm and smelled of ashes of roses as it blew through the jali and turned the delicately handwritten sheets. No implants. No special powers or abilities. No abnormal neural structures, no tailored combat viruses.
I was a completely normal fourteen-year-old Kshatriya girl.
I leaped over the swinging stick. While still in the air, I brought my own staff up low, catching the Azad’s weapon between his hands. It flew from his grasp, clattered across the wooden floor of the hall. He threw a kick at me, rolled to pick up his pole, but my swinging tip caught him hard against the temple, send him down to the floor like dropped laundry. I vaulted over him, swung my staff high to punch its brass-shod tip into the nerve cluster under the ear. Instant death.
“And finish.”
I held the staff millimeters away from my enemy’s brain. Then I slipped the lighthoek from behind my ear and the Azad vanished like a djinn. Across the practice floor, Leel set down yts staff and unhooked yts hoek. In yts inner vision yts representation of me— enemy, sparring partner, pupil—likewise vanished. As ever at these practice sessions, I wondered what shape Leel’s avatar took. Yt never said. Perhaps yt saw me.
“All fighting is dance, all dance is fighting.” That was Leel’s first lesson to me on the day yt agreed to train me in Silambam. For weeks I had watched yt from a high balcony practice the stampings and head movements and delicate hand gestures of the ritual dances. Then one night after yt had dismissed yts last class, something told me, stay on, and I saw yt strip down to a simple dhoti and take out the bamboo staff from the cupboard and leap and whirl and stamp across the floor in the attacks and defenses of the ancient Keralan martial art.
“Since it seems I was not born a weapon, then I must become a weapon.”
Leel had the dark skin of a southerner, and I always felt that yt was very much older than yt appeared. I also felt—again with no evidence—that yt was the oldest inhabitant of the Hijra Mahal, that yt had been there long before any of the others came. I felt that yt might once have been a hijra and that the dance moves yt practiced and taught were from the days when no festival or wedding was complete without the outrageous, outcast eunuchs.
“Weapon, so? Cut anyone tries to get close you, then when you’ve cut everyone, you cut yourself. Better things for you to be than a weapon.”
I asked Leel that same question every day until one evening thick with smog and incense from the great Govind festival, yt came to me as I sat in my window reading the chati channels on my light-hoek.
“So. The stick fighting.”
That first day, as I stood barefoot on the practice floor in my Adidas baggies and stretchy sports top trying to feel the weight and heft of the fighting staff in my hands, I had been surprised when Leel fitted the lighthoek behind my ear. I had assumed I would spar against the guru ytself.
“Vain child. With what I teach you, you can kill. With one blow. Much safer to fight your image, in here.” Yt tapped yts forehead. “As you fight mine. Or whatever you make me.”
All that season I learned the dance and ritual of Silambam, the leaps and the timings and the sweeps and the stabs. The sharp blows and the cries. I blazed across the practice floor, yelling Kerala battle hymns, my staff a blur of thrusts and parries and killing strokes.
“Heavy child, heavy. Gravity has no hold on you—you must fly. Beauty is everything. See?” And Leel would vault on yts staff and time seemed to freeze around yt, leaving yt suspended there, like breath, in midair. And I began to understand about Leel, about all the nutes in this house of hijras. Beauty was everything, a beauty not male, not female; something else. A third beauty.
The hard, dry winter ended and so did my training. I went down in my Adidas gear and Leel was in yts dance costume, bells ringing at yts ankles. The staffs were locked away.
“This is so unfair.”
“You can fight with the stick, you can kill with a single blow; how much more do you need to become this weapon you so want to be?”
“But it takes years to become a master.”
“You don’t need to become a master. And that is why I have finished your training today, because you should have learned enough to understand the perfect uselessness of what you want to do. If you can get close, if you ever learn to fly, perhaps you might kill Salim Azad, but his soldiers will cut you apart. Realize this, Padmini Jodhra. It’s over. They’ve won.”
In the morning when the sun cast pools of light in the shapes of birds onto the floor of the little balcony, Janda would drink coffee laced with paan and, lazily lifting a finger to twirl away another page in yts inner vision, survey the papers the length and breadth of India, from the Rann of Kutch to the Sundarbans of Bengal.
“Darling, how can you be a bitch if you don’t read?”
In the afternoon ov
er tiffin, Janda would compose yts scandalous gossip columns: who was doing what with whom where and why, how often and how much, and what all good people should think. Yt never did interviews. Reality got in the way of creativity.
“They love it, sweetie. Gives them an excuse to get excited and run to their lawyers. First real emotion some of them have felt in years.”
At first I had been scared of tiny, monkeylike Janda, always looking, checking, analyzing from yts heavily kohled eyes, seeking weaknesses for yts acid tongue. Then I saw the power that lay in yts cuttings and clippings and entries, taking a rumor here, a whisper there, a suspicion yonder and putting them together into a picture of the world. I began to see how I could use it as a weapon. Knowledge was power. So, as dry winter gave way to thirsty spring and the headlines in the streets clamored MONSOON SOON? and RAJPUTANA DEHYDRATES, Janda helped me build a picture of Salim Azad and his company. Looking beyond those sensationalist headlines to the business sections, I grew to recognize his face beneath the headlines: AZAD PLUNDERS CORPSE OF RIVALS. SALIM AZAD: REBUILDER OF A DYNASTY. AZAD WATER IN FIVE RIVERS PROJECT. In the society section, I saw him at weddings and parties and premiers. I saw him skiing in Nepal and shopping in New York and at the races in Paris. In the stock market feeds, I watched the value of Azad Water climb as deals were struck, new investments announced, takeovers and buyouts made public. I learned Salim Azad’s taste in pop music, restaurants, tailors, designers, filmi stars, fast fast cars. I could tell you the names of the people who hand-sewed his shoes, who wrote the novel on his bedside table, who massaged his head and lit cones of incense along his spine, who flew his private tilt-jets and programmed his bodyguard robots.
One smoggy, stifling evening as Janda cleared away the thalis of sweetmeats yt gave me while I worked (“Eat, darling, eat and act”), I noticed the lowlight illuminate two ridges of shallow bumps along the inside of yts forearm. I remembered them on Heer all my life and had always known they were as much a part of a nute as the absence of any sexual organs, as the delicate bones and the long hands and the bare skull. In the low, late light they startled me because I had never asked, What are they for?
The Starry Rift Page 22
