by Lavie Tidhar
“I’ve seen your records, Kalpana. You are brilliant and capable of extraordinary mental focus. All the assignment needs is focus. Let them dress you and I’ll explain the rest.”
I barely noticed the women who surrounded me and the hands flurrying around me; I was numb, as if I’d been plunged into ice water. I was supposed to become Sita. Well, a Sita, if not the Sita. My legs wobbled. I think I swayed.
I tried to sort my thoughts as women peeled off my bodysuit and wrapped silk around my waist and chest. Capsules were snapped into my brain implant. A woman tried injecting something into my leg; I kicked reflexively, so someone held my arm rigid and plunged in the needle. A small wart appeared on my skin. “We don’t have time for a binding operation,” someone said. “Left to nature, it takes a week for the button to integrate properly, but it’ll be stable enough unless there is extreme trauma.” Jewelry clasps clicked, someone explained the hidden tools. A spray coated me with a golden haze.
“Thank you,” said Seniormost, and the women withdrew.
Before I could pour out my questions, Seniormost started speaking, so I focused on her words.
“Kavita was trained in essentials and sent out when she was seven years old,” she said. “We had coded the relevant cultural information in her brain implant, and we briefed her frequently using her sync button. We got periodic updates on her activity from the button; we have uploaded all information into your implant. Access is by using normal thought control techniques.”
She had not talked of Kavita’s death. I shuddered. “Kavita died in spite of her training. How will I survive?”
“That was an accident.”
“And what am I supposed to do there? How will I know how to behave, what to say, how to recognize people?”
“The implant has all the data and guidance algorithms to help you conform and stay unnoticed.” She smiled reassuringly. “Just stay low–profile for a day or two till we study the situation and brief you.”
It sounded tough, but manageable. I took a centering breath. “When will you replace me with a proper agent?”
Seniormost’s face softened. She patted my shoulder and strapped me in a chair. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. I know you can do it.” She flung a lever.
§
The conflagration hemmed me in, intimidating in spite of my fire–proofing. Bile soured my throat as I tried to push away the horror of the situation. My implant flashed an instruction; I obediently directed a miniscule atomizer on the charred remains of my predecessor near my feet. No burnt human bones must be found in the ashes.
Again, impelled by the implant, I ran to the edge of the pyre where the onlookers were grey smudges beyond an orange shimmer. I stepped out of the fire. I must have looked impressive with my skin burnished gold from the afterglow of the dissipating fire–proofing shell, resplendent in silk garments, dazzling with jewelry. A woman certified pure by Agni Devata, the God of Fire.
“Jai ho!” A few scattered cries from the crowd.
I walked slowly, painfully, on the rough ground, trying to look calm and dignified. A pall of silence smothered the crowd. Some women, several men. I had studied about men, about their salty smells, their thick, coarse voices, their hairy bodies, but even so, seeing them made me shudder. Petals were showered at me — jasmines, roses, marigolds — soft touches against bare skin, a creepy feeling. A crone grasped my hands into her gnarled ones, and led me to a short, skinny man with male–pattern baldness and a bewildered expression. Sweat on his brows. And fear, sour, nauseous fear — I could smell it.
Curiosity overrode my fear. This must be the husband, the wimp who burned his wife to stop baseless gossip about her chastity. He looked so unimpressive. Most mythological interpretations described him, or the collective of men like him, as tall, broad–shouldered, muscular of body and yet sensitive of face, hair a silky curtain.
“My chaste wife,” he muttered, averting his gaze.
Touch his feet, prompted my implant. Seek his blessing for a longer life.
But I couldn’t force myself to act docile to someone who had just killed his wife.
The man raised his hand as if blessing me. I walked past him; he scurried after me, annoyance flitting across his face.
A rickety chariot, lumpy seats covered by a threadbare spread. I settled down. The man sat opposite me, torso angled away, body rigid, too scared to bother me for a while.
Good. I had time, finally, to orient myself to the situation. A couple of centering breaths helped me focus. Then with my eyes half–closed, I began viewing Vaidehi’s downloads, filter set for salient personal facts. The husband was a local chieftain’s son. After his father called him good–for–nothing, he left his village in a huff, keen to prove his trading acumen. He dragged along his brother and Vaidehi for the business trip. They roamed from village to village, traded, earned gold and jewels. When they returned home, a washerman challenged Vaidehi’s chastity. Rumors, insinuations, and the demands of a fire test followed. Vaidehi expected the husband to ignore them. She knew him to be demanding and easy to anger, but assumed he valued her because of her hard work and loyalty during those years of travel. That was the status last evening, as per the most recent transmission.
I was soaking up the information when the chariot jerked to a halt.
No marble palace, no lush bowers, no gold fountains — only a simple stone building. Rice and lentil baras were drying on cloth spread out in the courtyard. Cowpats had been slapped on the walls. A naked boy wheeled a painted wooden cart. Women with their heads covered, some embroidering, others slicing yam. Men sprawled on rope cots, smoking something noxious.
The husband led me to a whitewashed room and closed the door behind us. He whipped out a dagger from his waistband. “How did you survive that fire? Witchcraft?”
My implant suggested I fall at his feet and plead forgiveness. Forgiveness for what, surviving? I had not integrated sufficiently with the Vaidehi persona to manage such acting, such false humility. I ignored the advice and readied myself for his attack.
He lunged at me. I twisted aside and hit his wrist sharply, making him drop the dagger. I kicked it across the room. Mouth agape, eyes round with shock, he stared at his empty hand.
I was utterly disgusted. “If you thought I wouldn’t survive, why did you agree to the fire test?”
His eyes darted from my face to the fallen dagger, and the wariness in his eyes transformed into cunning. He straightened up.
“They would have pushed you into the fire anyway,” he said. “By doing so myself, I retained my position as the chieftain’s son. I don’t know what witchcraft you did, but your emergence from the pyre has strengthened my place.”
Of such pettiness do orators make mighty legends. “They will weave from such incidents a story of Lord Rama, Maryada Purushottam, the exemplar of social propriety,” I said. “Temples will be constructed, festivals celebrated. The fire test will be touted as a righteous act of a king who valued even a washerman’s doubt.”
“King?” He frowned at me. “Who is they?”
Trust me to goof up. Why had I spoken my thoughts aloud? I was supposed to keep quiet and let the implant guide me. I sat down on the bed. “I must think.”
“A woman who thinks?” He snorted. “Now I’ve seen everything.”
This man had seen me emerge unharmed from fire. He had lost his dagger to me. Yet he mocked me. Had his fear and awe vanished because he sensed I would not attack him?
He came closer. “Since you have been proven pure,” he said, “I can taste you again.”
Revulsion swamped me. The thought of a male pressing on me, skin sweating over skin, reminded me too much of the modified Kamasutra that formed an essential part of female education in Navabharata, so that no man was “deprived.” We didn’t have any such training in Ambapur, of course, where we didn’t have men. Didn’t need them. Hadn’t needed them ever since several top women scientists and industrialists, sick of gender suppression and thrill
ed that science could render men redundant, bought land and funded enough politicians to kick–start the Ambapur experiment.
Yet now I was forced to interact with a man.
His hand grazed my breasts. I couldn’t hit him; that would contradict my supposed role. But every instinct in me shouted a protest. I had to think fast. I checked mental menus and located the required visualization trigger. The hormone release brought the relief of a cold shower. He jerked back, shock in his eyes. Then he rushed out of the room.
I sighed with relief. Thank Goddess for anti–pheromones!
After a few breaths to reorient, I pondered my position. I knew I should collapse the boundaries between the downloaded memories and my own, so that my responses matched what Vaidehi’s had been. But I wasn’t ready to surrender myself yet. This transition had been abrupt enough; I couldn’t handle more jolts. I tuned the implant for better response time and quick face recognition, but stopped short of merging with it.
The door opened. The husband’s brother strode in, dragging, horrors, his wife, Madhulika. She was heavy with child.
“The fire test suits you.” His grin exposed stained teeth. “You look grander, and you walk straighter.” He released his wife’s hair, and whacked her shoulder. “Madhulika would survive no such test. God knows how many men she chased when we were away.”
That was lust in his eyes. Once, when fellow–drunks almost killed him, Vaidehi had healed him, and this was how he gazed at her while she tended his wounds.
Disgusted, I turned to Madhulika. She was so beautiful. Skin fair as the kunda flower, lips the red of hibiscus, eyes the shape of fish. Monsoon clouds of black hair spilled over her cheek. I brushed them aside and whispered, “Sister, take heart. I will help you.”
“He will be angrier if you sympathize,” she whispered back.
The brother–in–law pushed her out of the door. She stumbled out, the enormous swell of her child–heavy belly almost causing her to fall.
“Go cook payasam,” he yelled after her. “And add enough nuts or I’ll teach you.”
He turned to me. “Ignore her, beautiful Vaidehi. Her mango–shaped breasts do not smell as good as the golden pears behind your silk uttariya, or those juices I smelled when you cradled my head in your lap and brought me back to life.”
I thought of a cultural archetype to repel him with. “One who brings you to life is a mother. Respect me as one.”
“A child suckles at his mother’s breast.” He grinned. “O mother mine, drop your uttariya, and let me feast.”
“Brother?” The husband stood at the door. “I was looking for you.”
I slipped out of the room.
§
The women sat clustered in the courtyard.
“You survived,” the mother–in–law said to me, her lips pursed in disapproval.
I squatted near her. The vat on the fire was smoking hot. She slipped balls of batter into the oil, and I watched them splutter and puff up. A distant aunt chopped green chillies. Another woman sliced onions. A small girl fed cowpats to the fire in the mud chulha.
“Do it properly.” The mother–in–law rapped her hand. She turned to me. “Too arrogant to help, are you?”
I hadn’t merged my muscle memories with the implant and such medieval cooking tasks needed skill.
“I’m tired,” I murmured.
“Vaidehi Aunty,” piped the young girl. “Did Agni Devata talk to you?” She was a chubby–faced seven–year–old, her eyes wide, a tentative smile on her face.
How I wanted that smile to grow with admiration for me! I yearned for this innocent girl to be spared the bitterness and resignation of the women around her.
“He spared me but said women should refuse such insulting tests,” I said. “Women number as many as the men. If we unite, no man can hurt us.”
“May God pull out your evil tongue,” snapped the mother–in–law. “You dare sow discontent in a child’s mind and spoil her future? Besides,” she snorted, “gods speak to priests, not to women. Uttering such falsehoods is a grievous sin.”
The girl’s smile wavered. She blinked as if she’d been woken up. The soft wonder on her face morphed into disgust directed at me.
I should have kept quiet. Seniormost had cautioned me to listen to the implant and stay unnoticed. This is what my failed profile tests probably said: Candidate does not obey instructions. Is not cautious. Shoots off her mouth.
“I wish the fire had consumed you,” said a cousin sister, her eyes ringed with dark circles, a bruise ripening on her jaw. “My husband threatened me with agni pareeksha. He says, Vaidehi survived, so why be scared if you are chaste?”
Her hostility dismayed me. I couldn’t think of a reply.
“If Vaidehi had died, the men would declare her unchaste,” said someone. “Now that she’s survived, they’ll hold her up as an example. Either way, the moment Elder Brother–in–law agreed to the fire test, we were doomed.”
Shard–sharp words, and true, as history showed. I turned to face the woman who’d spoken: Madhulika.
She continued, “We should keep men so happy that no one can sway them. They have so much work to do; we women can support them.”
“Hear her well, Vaidehi,” said the mother–in–law. “You are swollen–headed because you accompanied my son on his trip and survived the fire, but it is women like Madhulika who truly inspire young girls.”
I pressed my lips tight so that I wasn’t tempted to retort.
“Vaidehi!” A voice from behind. I looked up — it was Shanta, the husband’s elder sister. She crooked a finger.
I stumbled slightly as I stood, and Madhulika stretched her arm to steady me. Her finger curled around my forearm, clutching me where the sync button was.
I winced.
She released me immediately, gaze fixed on the wart. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. What was so unusual about a wart?
But Madhulika was staring at me as if seeing a vision of sorts. An understanding came into her eyes, and dread filled me. She suspects. But what can she suspect?
Shanta grabbed my shoulder. “Your husband wants you to visit me for a month. I will leave in an hour. Be ready by then.”
“But why?”
She glared at me. “Do you question your husband’s commands?”
Shut up, screamed the implant inside me. Just obey for once.
After Shanta strode off, Madhulika lay her hand on my arm and unobtrusively led me to an isolated corner. We reached a window opening to the yard where cows grazed.
“You are a replacement Vaidehi,” she said. “The earlier one had no wart on her arm.”
No, she had hers on her leg, I almost said, remembering the injection I’d kicked away.
“You are an agent?” I asked. Seniormost had not mentioned having another agent here.
She nodded, and lowered her uttariya slightly to expose a wart on her breast. “My coordinator didn’t mention another agent. He should have—”
“He?” I cut in. “A man?” I gaped at her, the import of her words sinking in slowly.
She paled, too. “No,” she said softly. “You are too normal. Arrogant, maybe, but not… but you must be… an Ambapur abomination.”
I would have reacted, but my implant flashed a warning twinge of pain, and by the time I’d recovered my breath, Madhulika had rushed away.
§
Shanta did not speak as we sat side–by–side in her cart. I welcomed the silence; realizing that Madhulika was a Navabharata agent had shocked me. I had not expected to find agents from the “enemy camp,” much less a woman. Madhulika didn’t fit my stereotype of Navabharata’s docile, suppressed women. I had been taught those women were dumb, incapable of independent thought, insipid, exploited, their personalities molded to the Sati–and–Sita image. They were pitiable objects compared to us — strong Ambapur women, free and independent and living in our own country.
Besides, why would Navabharata need agents? Seniormost had said
, “Futurist agents change the past so that the future changes.” Why would Navabharata want to change anything? That country had no simmering discontent regarding gender roles. Men were the hunters, gatherers, doers. The scientists and rulers. They commanded. They demanded. Women accepted men as superiors. Women bred, supported, obeyed. They listened, they supplied. Genetic selections encouraged this. Society rewarded it. Political systems, economic systems, were based on it. Why change it?
Or had Ambapur exaggerated the docility and dumbness of Navabharata women? Madhulika seemed intelligent enough, even though she had a different value system.
And she had called me an Ambapur abomination. What lies had their government fed them about us?
The cart jerked to a halt. “Get off, Vaidehi.” Shanta’s voice was whiplash–sharp. “My brother told me to get rid of you.”
Stunned, I looked around. We were on a lonely road skirting a forest. No farms nearby, not a single hut, nothing. I looked at Shanta; she was frowning at me and gripping a thick stick as if ready to attack. I took a few moments to gather my words. “I have been your brother’s wife for years,” I said. “I helped him when we traveled.”
“That was your duty, so what’s great about it?” she retorted. “Now you have resorted to evil ways.”
“But—”
“No one can survive fire without witchcraft.”
“Then why did he agree to the fire test?”
“A woman who dies to save her husband embarrassment dies a worthy death.” Shanta threw my bundle of clothes on the ground, then pushed me off the cart.
“What will he tell the villagers?” I asked.
Shanta shrugged. She made a sign of warding off evil, and instructed the cart driver to proceed.
The sun was low in the sky, barely visible behind the dense trees. I wanted to sink onto the ground and cry, but I couldn’t afford to. Then I thought of the implant, and queried it about the surroundings. Luckily, it turned out that Vaidehi had spent part of her childhood nearby, something neither Shanta nor her brothers had known. Her records showed a cave some distance away, hidden in the forest.
