by Liz Williams
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he snapped. “This lady’s come halfway across the country to hear her fortune.”
The widow’s face was full of hope. Jaya, feeling like the world’s biggest fraud, put a benedictory hand on the little boy’s head. And instantly, she knew that something was very wrong. The voice was a murmur in her mind, telling of sickness, of death. As the child gazed up at her, Jaya could see the first faint silvery striations of Selenge beneath the skin of his throat. Her father had seen it, too; she glimpsed the warning in his eyes.
“Can I speak to you privately?” she said to the widow.
“Jaya—”
“The gods have a message for this woman, Father,” Jaya told him, sounding as pompous as possible. “No one else must hear it.”
Standing, she swept the widow and the little boy into the sanctum that stood behind the main room, and as gently as she could, she told the woman that the child was sick. She did not say that she had seen his death. Selenge took its victims hard; the muscles wasted away, the victims failing fast. The widow’s face buckled with shock. She plucked at Jaya’s sleeve.
“Are you sure?”
“It’s possible I might be wrong,” Jaya said clumsily. “But you can see it for yourself.”
And then she realized that the widow already knew. Like the conjuror’s audience, she was blotting out the truth, seeing only what she wanted to see: hoping to be deceived, praying for a last-minute miracle. Jaya expected tears and recriminations, but after a long moment the widow said quietly, “Do you believe in karma? Do you believe this is somehow my fault, and the fault of the child?”
Jaya thought for a moment. One of her earliest memories was of her father, shouting that fate was unkind, railing about what he must have done in a past life to be made so wretched now. But then the voice had come and brought them riches; was that destiny, too? Was it some virtue inherent in her soul that made her superior and blessed whereas this woman was about to lose the thing most precious to her? And was it the karma of the dalits as a caste that had caused them to fall from grace beneath the whim of Hindu fundamentalism and the curse of a modern plague, reversing the beneficial consequences of half a century of progress? Jaya decided, once and for all, that destiny had nothing to do with it.
“No,” she said. “I don’t believe in karma. I don’t think any of it—your position, your caste, the boy’s illness—is your fault. You’re not responsible for this.” Anger rang in her ears. “But the system is.”
She told the widow they could stay at the ashram as long as they wanted, free of charge. Her father protested, but Jaya wouldn’t listen. And the widow was only the beginning. Disregarding her father’s pleas, she began to house more and more people at the ashram, and put money into adding more buildings. She read Gandhi, and Marx. She read about the green revolution of the twentieth century. And she started to have ideas.
“Think what we could do,” she urged her father one day as they sat in the flower-filled hall of the ashram. “Look at the others. Shrimati Avati. Rama Krishna. Those Mumbaikars running Rajneesh’s old outfit. They publish books. People buy them in London, even. New York. And they’re no more than showmen, like we were. If I start speaking out against the caste system… Just think what we could accomplish.”
At that point the first visitors of the day came in. Jaya and her father hastily composed themselves into smiling serenity before anyone noticed anything, and the consultation of the oracle began. But throughout the day a thought kept returning to her, fueled by what she later realized to be adolescent idealism. I know I’m not a goddess, but maybe the gods are real and put me here… Maybe I can make a difference.
She stood in front of the mirror, gazing at her grave face: thin, with the bones too prominent and her eyes like wells beneath the arched brows. She wondered, as she always did, whether she resembled her mother. A not-quite Dravidian face: sharp northern bones and dark southern skin. Her face looked fierce.
She found that it was frighteningly easy to become Joan of Arc, or Phoolan Devi. When she spoke out, questioning the injustices of the restored caste system, questioning the ancient hierarchies on which Bharat was based, it was as though her words were a flame racing through the dry grass, setting everything on fire. She wasn’t saying anything new; the system had been questioned many times before, and changed, and changed back again. But now it was as though everyone was waiting for a new figurehead. A stream of people queued at the gates of the ashram: ardent young men; angry dispossessed widows; civil servants who had lost their positions to the upper castes in the last stages of restoration; Western idealists. Before Jaya knew it, she had an army.
When she first saw that some of the visitors were carrying guns, Jaya went into her room and slammed the door. Her heart was beating fast, pounding against her ribs, and there was an acid dryness in her throat. This is where it starts, she thought. This is where we go to war. Doubts welled up, and she couldn’t afford the luxury of reflecting on them. The voice was echoing in her head in time to the beat of her heart, when there was a sharp knock on the door.
“Jaya?” It was her father.
“Go away,” Jaya shouted.
“Open the door. You have to come out. They’re waiting for you.” He was trying not to sound impatient, but she could hear the threat in his voice: You started this. Don’t weaken now.
Taking a deep breath, Jaya stepped onto the terrace that overlooked the courtyard, and the crowd fell silent. She didn’t know what to say. Buying time, she raised her hand as if in benediction. The garnet winked in the sunlight and she thought again of her mother, who had despised tricks. The day seemed to grow darker. It was as though everyone was holding their breath.
“Jaya Devi!” a young man shouted from the crowd: Victory Goddess. Jaya froze, seeing a fierce bearded face and a clenched fist swung up in imitation of her own. The young man was easily a head taller than the rest of the crowd. “We’re ready to march for you! We’re ready to fight!”
Ready to die. Jaya let her hand fall. She didn’t need to say anything, in the end. They did all the talking for her.
She spent the rest of the afternoon in her room, trying not to think. Toward evening, when the light lay heavy and golden across the fields, she slipped through the door and down the hall. The sannyasin who guarded her door was nodding in the coolness of the hallway. Jaya’s joints glowed with a faint pain, but she needed to run.
She took the back way through the compound, into the fly-humming cattle sheds. A black buffalo lifted its mild head and stared. Behind it was a gap in the wall. Half running, half stumbling, Jaya found the path that led down toward the river. The Ganges ran slow and old between its banks, glistening like oil in the heat. Jaya crouched in the cool mud by the river’s edge and plunged her hands into the water to wash her dusty face. She wished she didn’t have to go back. The voice was silent now, but she could still feel it inside her. She wondered for the thousandth time what it really was: sickness, a god, a demon, nothing? Dragonflies skimmed the surface of the river.
A voice said, “Miss?”
Jaya jumped. Climbing awkwardly to her feet, she turned to see a young man watching from the top of the bank. His mouth fell open in dismay as he recognized her.
“Jaya Devi?”
“Don’t call me that,” Jaya snapped.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any disrespect, I—”
“Just Jaya,” she said, suddenly tired of everything. “Nothing special. What’s your name?”
He stammered, “It’s—well, it’s Kamal. Kamal Rakh. My brother’s the one who shouted out this afternoon. The big guy?”
He had a round, worried face beneath its beard. Jaya stared at him: at the neat turban, at his faded T-shirt and the old MK16 slung across one shoulder.
“I suppose I should go back, shouldn’t I?” she said, and he nodded with relief. He helped her up the bank.
“That’s a pretty ring,” he said, shyly. Her mother’s garnet gleamed w
etly on her finger, and Jaya found herself smiling.
“It’s a magic ring,” she told him, very solemn. “It’ll stop me from getting killed.”
“Really?” He smiled back, and she saw with a leap of the heart that he didn’t believe her. It was so good not to be treated with deference that she laughed.
“No. It’s just a bit of cheap glass. No magic.”
“What about your prophecies, though? They’re not just cheap glass, are they?”
“I don’t know,” Jaya said honestly. “What do you think?”
He shrugged. “Prescience? Precognition? Probably not magic, though—and I don’t think you’re a goddess. I did an engineering degree, before they started discriminating against Sikhs, too. But what you say comes true, and that’s what matters, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing,” Jaya said. “What if I’ve started a war?”
“Then it’s long overdue, Jaya. We can’t go on like this. You’re the catalyst, but we’ve been waiting for you. Don’t worry. You can only do your best. You can only tell the truth, as far as you can.” He glanced at her. “Do you believe in karma?”
The widow’s voice echoed in her head. “No. I think you make your own destiny.”
“I think you’re right. Well,” Kamal added, “we’ll make it together, then.”
Jaya couldn’t think of anything to say. They reached the ashram in silence.
That night, Jaya woke with a start. Her heart was beating loudly enough to wake the world, thundering against the walls. Then in the next moment she realized that it wasn’t her heart at all; it was the sound of a helicopter. A single sharp cry came from the courtyard, followed by the rattle of gunfire. Jaya snatched her clothes from the chair and ran out into the compound. The helicopter soared up, splintering the lamplight, and the wind from its rotor-arm sent her hair flying across her face. A woman was lying facedown in the courtyard, not moving. Intermittent gunfire barked from the gates.
Jaya ran, keeping close to the wall and crying, “Dad! Dad, where are you?”
A bullet whined past her and shattered against the plaster. Jaya ducked beneath a doorway and found herself in the main hall. It was empty, eerily silent. “Dad?”
Someone stepped out from behind one of the plaster columns: a tall man, in uniform. As he came forward into the light, with the gun at the ready, Jaya saw a handsome, melancholy face, noted the elegant curve of nose and cheek. A northerner, probably of the kshatriya caste, a warrior. And an aristocrat.
“Well,” the man said, in a soft, cultured voice. “So you’re the cause of all the fuss.” Casually, he raised the gun and fired. Jaya found herself flat on the floor, with her scream echoing down the hall. It was a moment before she realized that she hadn’t been hit. The man fired again, sending a bullet ricocheting away from the stone floor, a few feet from her head. It deafened her. She stared numbly up at him as he prowled down the aisle to stand over her. His eyes were a pale, startling blue. He was fumbling with his belt and she thought, Oh, God, no. Her fear must have been plain in her face, because his eyes widened with distasteful surprise.
“You?” he said. His face froze with disdain. “A dalit? Do you know who I am?” He unfastened the new ammunition clip from the belt and slid it up into his gun.
“Well, good-bye,” he told her, and the muzzle of the gun fell within an inch of her eyes. There was a loud, sharp crack. She thought for a second that the gun had gone off, but it was only the bang of the door against the wall. She heard her father’s voice, shouting, and then the deafening blast of the gun. The hall caved in, disintegrating in a shower of plaster, flower petals, and fire. Jaya’s assailant was sent sprawling across her, and his weight knocked the breath from her body. He swore, struggling, and then collapsed. Someone was dragging her out and up, pulling her across her father’s body to the door.
“No! My dad’s hurt!”
“He’s dead.” The hand around her wrist was like the paw of a bear; she recognized the big man from the afternoon’s rally. Kamal was waiting in what remained of the hallway, looking more worried than ever; it almost made her laugh. Between them, they half carried her to the shattered wall of the compound, where an ATV was waiting. The driver was slumped over the wheel with a red, wet hole in his head; Kamal hauled him out.
“Get in. Quickly!”
She looked back as the ATV bounced down the track. The compound was blazing. Sparks sailed up into the night sky like souls flung from the wheel. Kamal said urgently, “Keep your head down. Satyajit, where are the others?”
The big man mumbled a reply. Jaya whispered, “Who was he? That man?”
Kamal crammed his turban more firmly onto his head and twisted in the seat to look at her, saying, “His name is Amir Anand. He’s a colonel in the provincial militia, but his family are aristocrats. People call him the butcher-prince. Among other things. Don’t worry—we’ll get you out of here.” He turned back to the wheel, and they sped down the road.
Someone was saying in a high thin voice, “Oh, God. Oh, God, it’s over. It’s over.” With a distant sense of amazement, Jaya realized that the voice was hers. Kamal’s hand left the steering wheel and fumbled for her own.
“But Jaya…” he said. His fingers tightened around hers, and she looked down to see her mother’s ring between their interlocked fingers. “Jaya, it’s just begun.”
THE RAKSASA
1.
Vranasí
Jaya struggled up from the pillows and reached for her water jug, angry with herself for once more falling into the doze of memory. I can’t afford the past—it’s the future If that matters. I’ve got to get out of here. Her mouth was still filled with the memory of ash and death. Kamal had been right. It had been only the beginning. After that had come the years of fighting and love and rebellion and sickness, the life that led her here to yet another role, this time as case study. From oracle to goddess, from terrorist to fugitive, from jackal to patient.
My people have many names, thought Jaya, and all of them mean the same thing. Dom, dalit, harijan: untouchable. We deal in death and darkness: we handle corpses, tan hides, trade in shit. We have been farmers, whores, terrorists, and Presidents, and now, because of a quirk of political fate, we are right back where we started, the lowest of the low.
But of all the peoples of Bharat, Jaya knew, it was her caste who lived closest to reality, for the nearer a person was to death, the better that person might understand life. Someone has to take the blame, and surely we are the heroes of India, for we see what others cannot see, touch what others may not touch. As a woman, and dalit and dying, I am the lowest of all—closer to animal than human, closer to death than life—and that’s what has made me privileged, in the end. Because I have so little to lose.
Yes, you told me, someone said, with distant amusement. You are a jackal.
Startled, Jaya looked up and stared.
There was a being sitting on the end of the bed, golden-eyed and many-limbed. It had all the unreality of a dream. It shimmered as though seen through heat, and with the numbness that sometimes comes in dreams, Jaya reached out and touched one of its four hands. Her fingers passed straight through the being’s parchment skin, and so she knew that it wasn’t real.
Strangely, it was then that she began to tremble. The being was both like and unlike a god. There were four stumpy arms, ending in almost fingerless hands. It had no hair, there was a ridge beneath its robe where its breast ought to have been, and its face was a series of smooth soft curves, like a plump locust. Its eyes were round and golden, and it had a small, splayed nose. Its mouth was curled like a lotus bud, and when it spoke the mouth did not move.
I am a goddess, it told Jaya with patronizing kindness, and fright flooded through her. She realized that she’d been holding her breath, but though the being’s words echoed inside her mind, it wasn’t the voice that she’d heard since childhood. She did what she had done so many times before, and converted fear to anger.
<
br /> “What a coincidence,” Jaya snapped. “So was I.”
The goddess didn’t seem to know what to make of this, for her petaled lips curled and twisted. Jaya added with temerity, “There are over thirty thousand gods in this country; they’re as common as beetles. Which one are you?”
It is interesting to see what the Tekhein desqusai have become, the goddess said, ignoring Jaya’s words. She sounded indifferent and remote, as befitted a deity. What do you call yourself?
“Jayachanda Nihalani.”
The goddess repeated it; at least, Jaya thought she did—the sounds didn’t really resemble the words she’d just spoken. Interesting. You are neither one thing nor another. You are invisible due to your caste and your gender, yet here you are under constant observation. You are human, yet you describe yourself as an animal, a “jackal.” You are young, but your sickness gives you the appearance of an old person. You intersect with many margins: life, death, illness, health. Your identity is fluid. This is encouraging.
“Who are you? What are you? And why is it ‘encouraging’?” The being might claim to be a goddess, but she was talking about Jaya as the doctors did, as though she were not a real person at all. Not someone afraid and in pain, but just another interesting phenomenon. Jaya felt a tight knot of anger and fear.
Why, I am a raksasa, the being said, and was abruptly gone. And Jaya couldn’t feel anything anymore; she was like a reed with the pith sucked out.
She blamed the raksasa, in the seconds before she passed out.
LATER, the nurse came to wake her and she was brought food on a tray. It was only dal and rice, but it smelled horrible and Jaya could not eat it. The inside of her mouth tasted of metal. The nurse took the tray away, and Jaya looked up to see that the raksasa had come back. The thought floated into her tired mind: Raksasa does not mean “goddess.” It means “demon.” Jaya struggled to sit up to look at the creature, but she could barely move. Her joints were burning, and the flesh of her hands seemed too fluid, as though her skin was nothing more than a bag of blood.
