Prince of Naraka

On Swarga, Indra was in fine, high humor. The banquet celebrating mainland Swargan unification––the feast to cement his rule––was going as beautifully as he could have ever desired. The abundance of his table sated the hunger of Indra’s belly. The hunger of his ears was filled with the sweetness of the melodies woven by his gandharvan musicians. The hunger of his eyes was made ravenous by the dancing of the most beautiful courtesans of all the known realms, his apsaras.

Interesting, is it not? Indra mused idly, turning to the High Lord of Death, Yama, who sat beside him. The hunger of the eyes is the only hunger which, when met, only further grows to find itself insatiable.

Ahh? Yama’s left eyebrow arched theatrically. Do enlighten us, good Indra. Around the table, the others turned to listen––Agni, Dhanvantri, Vayu. The High Devan Lords of the various kingdoms of Swarga. My former enemies, my current allies. But never my friends. I brought them to their knees through Saama, Daana, Bheda or Danda. Alliance, Gifts, Trickery, or all-out War.  

A conqueror could not be friends with the conquered. I will use them. Use their strength when it is needed. But always, they will seek to chip away at the legs of my throne, to topple it from under me.

His sister and general Jayanti Prabalha ignored Yama, rolling her almond eyes and returning to her discussion with Agni, High Lord of Fire. They were still debating how to respond to the Rakshasan pirates of Naraka, a realm which was separated from Swarga by the icy Kshirada Sea.

Coolly––deliberately––Indra met the eyes of his four High Lords, allowing himself the slightest edge of a smile. Yama was always the mischievous one, fomenting doubt among the others and engaging in constant, petty, power posturing. He bore close watching.

That night, though, Indra felt as strong as an entire brood of Swargan garudas, golden eagles. And twice as fierce. He met Yama’s goad with a careless grin. Hunger, he repeated to the table. The hunger of the eyes is the only hunger which, when met, further grows to find itself insatiable. The emperor motioned down towards the inner court, where the apsara women wove their lithe, enchanting dance. Their bodies glistened, oily smooth, beneath the flickering of the open flames that lit the vast, vault-ceilinged hall. We see the winking of a single almond eye, and we think we only need a glimpse of the other to be happy. But then, the other eye appears. We see the curve of a nose, the shading of a brow above her veil. Just the face, we think, and then our eyes will be content.

Agni and Dhanvantri nodded. Yama grinned. Vayu was impassive. Indra smiled, his fair hair gleaming in the lights of the hall. While their lust for power would persist, his chieftains couldn’t resist what he offered them. Not merely the appetite for luxury and abundance, but to have for once the respite needed to enjoy it.

A stop to endless warring. To transcend to peace on Swarga.

His dream had hardened him, had forced him to embrace their games. But the dream was swiftly becoming a reality. Only the islands of Varuna remained to be conquered on Swarga.

The High Devan Lords waited, their bellies dormant after feasting, and their tongues pleasantly loosened by his best wine. He took a deep draught of sura wine, and then continued. A bit more, we think. The throat perhaps, and the baring of a shoulder. Extending a forefinger to his audience, Indra traced the figure of a woman in the air. A shoulder. A curve. A leg. A brush. A breast. A sliding circle. Each fails to suffice. Each only sparks hunger for the next, to go deeper. He gestured to the gyrating apsaras once again, pleased to see that their contours provided evidence for his theory. All the High Lords nodded and smiled, their attention torn between their conqueror and the bewitching bodies in the firelight.

From all corners of Swarga the apsaras came, to be trained in the mastery of their art––the art of the assassin seductress. To be unleashed by their Master on his unsuspecting rivals. 

The only hunger which gives rise directly to another, Indra finished. The hunger for touch.

Yama clicked his tongue loudly, destroying the moment. Not for me, he said, shaking his head with a grin. For me, that’s every sort of hunger. He touched his ears. I hear a little maiden singing? I come closer. He felt his nose. I smell an apsara’s devilish perfume? I seek it out. He widened his eyes. I see her curves? He opened his mouth. And when I taste her lips...

Yama gestured toward an especially beautiful apsara with a leer. I only ever want more. And it’s not only tender maidens. A proud warrior? A farmer, laughing in his ignorance? By Brahma’s heads, a flower? I want to close in, to touch, to feel. He smiled, dropping one long-fingered hand to caress the ceremonial gold-plated quillon dagger at his hip.

To kill, Indra nodded, unimpressed. We know, Yama. You’re the servant of Kaala, of Death himself. So you’ve been reminding us for centuries.

I am Kaala’s chief! Yama flared, head tilting to one side, lips parting in a grin he meant to be unnerving. Indra merely found it shallow. Formless. A silhouette of power already snatched away.

Indra had faced death in many forms, and every time emerged the stronger. He no longer feared its embrace. 

You speak too much, Yama, Indra’s sister and general, Jayanti the Strong, turned at last with a lazy smile, plucking a grape from Yama’s plate and popping it into her luscious, full-lipped mouth. You should eat, so you have the strength to go forth on all those promised conquests.

Indra chuckled at Yama’s comical expression, the tension at the table draining away as Jayanti led the High Lords tactfully into a good-natured argument as to who could muster the better army and navy. 

My precious Jayanti. She leads my forces with strategy and ferocity. The season for allies, the season for finesse, the season for trickery, and the season for outright war. Indra and Jayanti had campaigned together for centuries.

But she isn’t prepared for what’s to come, he thought coldly. She fails to see that I’ve outgrown her. She’s blinded by her loyalty. By love of peace, it is true, but also by allegiance. Maybe even affection.

Indra resolved to nurture neither. In his experience, the survival of only the fittest under him was most efficient. He had just a few more lands to bring to heel, praise Brahma. One Language, One Faith, One God, One Peace - Indra’s Peace - to last a Yuga. A million years. A few more battles, a few more seeds of greed and power-lust to sow among the weak-willed, and he would prevail, by Brahma.

Yes. Yama was a bother, but he was well in hand. Death is ever greedy. Ever showy. But in the end, it is only so much noise. So much vanity. Brahma always breathes new life.

Idly, Indra turned away, basking for a moment in the splendor of his hall. Rich velvet tapestries adorned the walls within which his striking apsaras gyrated. The most beautiful women of all the lands the apsaras were, sweet and full but lithe and strong, not one ounce of their bodies wasted. Each of them was as cunning as any general, as elegant and deadly as a concealed quillon dagger.

The Throne Room was his pride and joy, the crowning jewel of his new palace in Amaravati, the capital of Indrapura. He’d wanted it to be the largest in all the realms, the largest in recorded history, and so it was. Five-sided, a wall for each Narakan kingdom he had conquered, four of them adorned with the art and history of its people. The fifth lay unadorned. I will have to bring those Kinnaran hordes on Naraka to heel one day. Carvings of ancient heroes and ferocious battles marched along the cornice, etched in bas-relief. Five pillars fronted each wall in an outer circle and five smaller, slimmer designs as they neared the hall’s center. Statues of lissome apsaras danced and twisted at the base of each column, warm and fluid and lifelike. So lifelike, that it seemed Brahma might send them dancing with their real counterparts with a single breath.

They’d been carved by his Vidyadharan artisans, of course. The finest stone-workers in all the realms. Pity I can’t take over their mountain kingdoms today, Indra brooded. His forces were still too scattered, stretched too thin.

A few more Narakan seasons, he consoled himself. Then, I’ll move on from the jungles and the plains to the mountains, the desert, the islands, and the steppe, whatever they may hold. For now, I can only extend my forces across central Naraka. Even that would have been a stretch if it hadn’t been for the Narakans’ delightful penchant for squabbling amongst themselves like spoiled children—a little like his slaves and gladiators on Swarga. 

As long as my territories remain stable, he had told his mentor and Chief Priest Brihaspati, I don’t care if they tear each other to pieces. We control only that which might spill into our borders. I don’t care if they destroy a bit of infrastructure on the fringe. A few more years, a few more struggles, and Naraka will be weak enough for me to take it all. And if everything goes well, I’ll have eternity to rebuild what the Narakan kingdoms have destroyed through wars with each other.

Yes. Indra hummed a contented raga, a sweet melody, as he scanned the room, enjoying the sight of his cavorting guests. This is how it should be. Delectable food, rare sura wine, beautiful women. All shared in Swargan brotherhood.

One of the newest girls hovered at his elbow, waiting as he finished a dish of roast quail. The moment he’d picked the last bone clean, the lithe Asuran slave whisked the plate away. Another scrambled forward from the throng with wine and a plate of the latest epicurean novelty - grilled peacock from Bhooloka. So quick. So quiet. One day––if Brahma smiles––all of Swarga will live like this.

Not that, girl! he waved a hand, gold rings glittering in the firelight. Something sweet. I’ve had enough meat. He didn’t scold her, of course. The quail remained his favorite, and all the servants knew that.

You’re new, he observed, admiring her form as she bent to fill his silver cup.

Yes, Your Majesty, she muttered softly. Her gaze remained fixed on the pitcher in her hands.

Well, speak up! How long have you been here at the palace? he asked, frowning. Are they so frightened of me that they wouldn’t even dare give a proper answer? I’ll have to show them I’m not a monster.

Two weeks, Your Majesty. There was the slightest stammer in her voice.

Dammit, would you look at me while we’re speaking? the emperor hissed, snatching at the fringe of her bodice. What do they teach you lot down there?

They . . . . she gasped, looking terrified. Her eyes darted up to his forehead, flicked down across his eyes, and slipped away. They teach us not to look, she whispered, head down. Not to speak. They teach us you’re not to be . . . . to be . . . .

What rubbish! he cursed quietly so that the others wouldn’t notice. Even when spoken to? Do they discourage common manners? You do know common manners are to meet the eyes of someone with whom you’re speaking?

Not with you, Majesty, she trembled. Not here. Forgive me if I’ve displeased you. They said . . . .

Fear... he groaned and clasped his temples, fighting back another curse. Is this what they nurture? By Brahma, you’re supposed to see the beauty of this place. Perhaps they’d be well advised to remember they are also–– he sighed, twisting in his chair to hide his face from the table. To hide the flicker of frustration as he sought to calm his nerves. Disappointing, girl, Indra muttered. I only want you all to see my vision. Can you not enjoy the luxury of this place? The peace? 

Majesty. Again her gaze slipped away, tumbling down to a spot between her feet. This place is beautiful. I have seen nothing like it.

But you miss your home, he muttered. You are afraid. You will learn to love this place, I swear it. I intend to make Swarga a beacon for all the realms, unmatched in beauty. Tell me about your home, girl. What is the most beautiful place you have seen down in Naraka, in your Nagan wilder villages?

She flinched. Wilder villages? she echoed. For once, she showed emotion, though just a flicker. A flicker of defiance, masking disgust below. I am no wilder, Majesty. She practically spat the word, though she tried to hide it. "I am a cityer from Bhagavassi, of pure Nagan blood."

Ahh. Indra sighed with a smile. I should probably address this rather abrupt flare of defiance, however slight and understandable. Ahh well. Damn them all to the pyres along the great river Sandhyaa. Off with you, girl, he waved a hand. Cool off. Don’t work anymore tonight. If anyone tries to make you, send them straight to me.

As she struggled to bow and then scurried off, he tried to imagine her transforming. Shedding her skin, stretching herself out of it, and lengthening into a massive, scaled serpent, long as two banquet tables put together.

It was a thought to give any conscious creature pause. Indra had seen it hundreds of times, but still, a Naga transforming was like nothing in the known realms. Should we even keep Nagas with all the other servants? They were by far the most contentious and most dangerous, given their shape-shifting abilities. They wear spell-bands around their throats, mantra-wards to keep them from shifting.

But still . . . .

He smiled thinly. At least she’d proven one thing; even while in chains, deep-seated Narakan hatreds did not vanish in the face of a common enemy.

He returned his attention to his chalice with a sigh, fingers tracing the gems encrusting its beaten silver rim.

Not right now, he waved Jayanti away as she leaned in to speak with him, lips bright and deadly. Go weave your charms among the High Lords.

Indra took a long draught, abruptly wishing that he were in the company of his concubines instead of the motley crowd that surrounded him. His mood had turned distinctly sour.

* * * 

I’m telling you, he said it! Namissa spat angrily at her overseer, a stodgy, corpulent, fair-haired Devan waving his hands in the doorway of the kitchens. He’s trying to stop me from getting by, the mad Deva. Kenuaa!

I don’t care what you say he said, the overseer sneered, a cloud of flour descending from his flailing arms. You’re too distraught to serve, but you can cut up bread or load the carts or––

Thegêmā Dasyu! You, Slave! Tum Vura, First Steward of Guntur, of Indra’s Palace Household––quite a mouthful of a title for someone who was, essentially, leader of the slaves––came marching up, uniform tight and perfect as always.

Both Namissa and the fat Devan overseer cowered. Namissa had never personally spoken to the woman, but Tum Vura was famously tyrannical.

Namissa, is it?

Y––yes? She knows my name?

What’s going on, Namissa?

"His Grace Chakravarthi Indra has said I may be excused for the night, Namissa stammered. He said I was distraught, unfit to serve. He said I might––"

Is this true? Tum Vura turned to the obese overseer.

I . . . . I have no idea, First Steward, he shrugged. But it sounds as likely as a bloody Rakshasan wench being crowned the queen of––

She brought you a message from our Emperor––may He live forever––and you didn’t even check to verify it before dismissing it outright?

But Mistress Tum Vura, he protested. Imagine! She’s––

Our servants often carry messages from Devan Lords, do they not?

They do, Tum Vura, but––

And we follow the orders in those messages without question, do we not?

We do, but––

And every servant in this palace has been trained to tell the truth upon pain of death?

They have, and––

Then, you’re expected to believe her, the Steward snapped, brushing him aside. The Deva sidestepped with a gulp and watched as the Steward motioned Namissa on.

I’ll see to him later, the woman promised briskly as the overseer retreated with a scowl into the bustle of the kitchens. For now, though, please tell me what’s happened to make you so distraught.

It was nothing, Preshta, Namissa muttered, averting her gaze. I just . . . . got flustered.

New here, aren’t you? the woman exclaimed.

That’s right, Ma’am.

Well, let me tell you something, Namissa, the Steward said, taking her hand and forcing her to a stop. They faced each other in the dimly-lit hallway. I’m the First Steward. I need to keep the royal household running smoothly every hour of every day until the day I die. That is my burden. What is the first rule of serving?

We are the wheel that keeps the palace moving, Namissa quoted stiffly. But we are not alive when we serve the palace. Off duty, we can live. On duty, we are the hand that pours the wine, the voice that announces the arrival of guests, the broom that sweeps the dirt. We are spokes in a wheel and nothing more. Nagas did not understand the concept of slaves––but even if they had, they would not have treated them as the dregs of the realm. Instead, her people would have recognized even a slave’s place in their God Vritra’s harmony.

Right. Tum Vura nodded. So if a single piece is out of place, the palace falters. It’s my duty to ensure that doesn’t happen. Now. Do you see why you must answer my question?

Namissa trembled.

"Come, child. Or should I ask the Chakravarthi, the Emperor himself?"

At first, Namissa recounted only a shadow of the exchange. When the First Steward pressed, she sighed and gave her full account.

I see. It was difficult to tell, but Namissa thought the Steward smiled in the darkness. She bristled in anticipation of the woman’s wrath. She’d take it, but not kindly. Somewhere in this hell, I needed a touch of pride. A banner to raise, if only to cling to in the eye of the storm. If it couldn’t be in front of Indra, it would damn well be in front of the other servants.

I did wrong, I know. I shouldn’t have looked the Chakravarthi in the eyes––but he told me to look up! And, when he said I was a wilder, perhaps I should have just stayed quiet; but––

I’d like to tell you something, Namissa.

It’s my guess you intend to, regardless. What?

hey kache thenunåma, ā Naga ki ri. 

Namissa flinched. What? she hissed hoarsely. What did you say? She is one of us. Tum Vura, the First Steward of the palace, was a Naga. You’re . . . .

Yes. The Steward nodded proudly, eyes glimmering in the darkness. I was brought here as a little girl; captured decades ago and raised here, trained by the very finest of our Lord’s––

I hate it here! Namissa burst out. "I hate this freezing, titi place. It stinks. The rain is cold; everything is cold! I feel naked in the open plains! And the wind! The wind across the grass. By the Sun Elemental that warms us every morning, the wind and rain freeze me to my bones!" Wind and rain were to refresh, to bring life. To kiss with coolness the steamy chaos of the jungle. They weren’t meant to freeze an already darkened land.

The First Steward watched. Silent. She had no mantra-ward around her neck.

But most of all, Namissa hissed. I hate him. Not just his questions. Not just how he commanded me to look in his eyes. His eyes! Vritra’s tomb, his eyes! They were green like life, fierce like fire, and drew her in. It was terrifying and made her feel naked. It unnerved her. He looks at me, Tum Vura. Really looks. That isn’t normal, isn’t right. The others never looked, Jayanti and Agni and the dark-haired Yama. No one ever saw a servant—no one except Indra, the most powerful and terrifying of them all.

It’s as if he wants me to like him! she shuddered. As if he thinks this place is pure, as if––

Her head rocked back from the Steward’s slap. A slap so hard she heard the sinews in her neck crack. Spots danced before her eyes, and she staggered against the wall with a gasp.

Two things. Like lightning, the Steward had transformed, taking the form of a giant serpent and wrapping Namissa in her coils.

She was a constrictor Naga, lacking in venom but thick as the trunk of a tree. A strong Rakshasa might hack at those scales with an axe and fail to cut cleanly through in less than a dozen blows.

The First Steward was a Naga. And she was without a mantra-ward around her throat. Her voice was cold as ice. The first. You will never speak of His Majesty, or of this noble land, in such a vile way again. You will not so much as think sour thoughts about the Devas, our masters. You will return to your dormitory for the night, and you will reflect on what you have done. And when you rise again tomorrow, you will rise a new creation. You will serve this kingdom until you die, and you will do so cheerfully.

The coils moved, pressing Namissa against the wall. With every exhalation, they tightened, cutting off circulation and leaving her gasping desperately for air. The hallway blurred around her, and the Steward’s words echoed as if from a very great distance. "The second. Know that I would die for His Majesty. That I would take a thousand arrows for him. That I would harvest a thousand Nagan skins if he asked me to. I am a Naga, true. But I am of Swarga. I belong to him. I believe in his vision, Namissa, and some day, you will too."

Then they were at eye level again, and Namissa realized her heart was pounding. The Steward stood before her again a woman, and Namissa found that she could finally breathe.

Namissa of Naraka, the Steward whispered as Namissa gasped for breath. This is what comes to those who refuse to lay down your people’s foolishness. This is what comes to those who let anger blind them into hatred. I pray you will see the beauty of Indra’s vision one day, and you will be born again to Swarga. But until that day . . . Smiling ever so sweetly, she patted the magical spell-ward around Namissa’s neck. I’ll be watching, and you’ll keep this on.

* * *

Namissa crouched in the darkness, dappled moonlight breaking through the clouds to illuminate the clearing just before her. She was in the palace gardens, as far from the servants’ quarters as she could risk without Mistress Talaani growing suspicious.

She didn’t have long. She’d slipped out under the pretext of needing to use the privy. She’d be late. She already had her excuse prepared if she were caught. A wine stain on her skirts, a tear at the bodice of her dress, and her hair tousled about her face. The palace swarmed with Swargan revelers, drunk on Indra’s pompous ‘generosity.’ As with all political gatherings on Swarga, men, in particular, were abundant––particularly bearded, wheezing lords and warriors from the far reaches of Swarga, whose wives were far too delicate for such affairs.

Barbarians, Namissa sniffed in disdain. Where she came from, women were dominant. They stood or slithered with spines, and their men fought fang and coil alongside their warrior wives.

Still, tonight she was delighted for the chauvinistic ways of the Devas of Swarga. Who knows what the Devan men might do? Lurching about as they were in a raucous, lust-filled daze, searching for anything that moved and was warmer than a rat three hours old.

Excuse well prepared, Namissa had hurried down the servants’ corridor out into the palace lawns, slipped behind the rhododendron hedges, and stolen off to the clearing in the garden.

It was one of her favorites. Lord Poosha and his latest consort favored it for its ‘tranquility’––another way of saying it guaranteed that the general public wouldn’t see their less-than-proper conduct––and Namissa had been recognized as a tight-lipped and quick-footed servant, ideal for carting various wines and pastries to the area without being spotted. As I helped that maaseru, that jackal with his thethenumaa, I started to love this little clearing.

Namissa flushed at the memories rushing through her mind, feeling a familiar tingle through her core. She’d been a maiden––hardly more than a child––when the Devas had caught her. She’d known the stories, of course––but that was all—just stories. Her Nagan friends Fenitraa and Staashii were always talking to the other girls, bragging about their latest conquests of boys in their quarter of the Nagan capital, Bhagavassi.

She’d hardly expected the stories to be accurate, much less to witness such things within her very first weeks on Swarga. It was––

No. Not now. Snarling in irritation until the tingling warmth subsided, Namissa forced herself to return her focus to the present.

To revenge.

No, she corrected herself. Not to revenge. To justice. The sacrificial ring was all prepared. Four diyas or clay lamps were set out on either side, two each for Naraka and Swarga. The circle around her held five diyas. Clay lamps, one for each of the Narakan races. Naga. Kinnara. Rakshasa. Vidyadhara. Asura.

The Nagan and Kinnaran diyas were the largest, signifying their sanctity as the purest of races. The Wildest Ones, the ones who lived in harmony with nature. Traditionally, the ritual used torches, but she’d only been able to smuggle the small clay diyas out of the servants’ quarters.

She hoped her God would still be able to hear her prayers.

She first made a murti, an image of her five-headed Nagan God Vritra, using the sacred red soil of Ishvaan that she had stolen from the kitchens. Then, placing the image in the middle of the sacrificial ring, she gave a holy bath to the Vritra murti with water that a Nagan female priestess had blessed. The image was then given a bath with milk and fragrant jasmine flowers, and decorated with vermilion and turmeric paste. 

As she uttered the sacred mantras of the Nagas, she wept…

ब्रह्म लोके च ये सर्पाः वृत्रनागाः पुरोगमाः|

नमोऽस्तु तेभ्यः सुप्रीताः प्रसन्नाः सन्तु मे सदा ||

"Even in the land of Brahma, Vritra Naga leads these serpents;

I salute them, let them be pleased with me for all time."

प्रलये चैव ये सर्पाः नरक प्रमुखाश्चये।

नमोऽस्तु तेभ्यः सुप्रीताः प्रसन्नाः सन्तु मे सदा॥

"Even at the time of the great dissolution,

these serpents were dominant over Naraka;

I salute them, let them be pleased with me for all time."

And then, Namissa cried out in the darkness…oh Supreme Vritra, when will you send the armies of Naraka to rescue us?!!

Day One

Raa One felt the jungle waiting. He felt it, deep and vast and silent, breathing with a giant beast’s rhythm.

He had prepared for it most of his life, yet he came to his task a fledgling. At that moment, he felt immeasurably, impossibly small.

Thoughts rushed to his head, and he sensed his heart’s rhythmic beating through every nerve in his body. Thump. Thump. Thump. You could leave now. Matr and Shuk Raa are too busy preparing for the pooja, and Soor Pan is engrossed in deep conversation with Koom Karn. You could avoid your inevitable encounter with death or whatever else the aranya has laid out for you.

Thump. Thump. Thump. It matched the breathing of the aranya, the jungle. Thump. Thump. Thump. At that moment, Raa One became painfully aware of his mortality. Many years of preparation had blessed him with extraordinary strength, cunning, even a bit of wisdom, but nothing could prepare him for what lay ahead in the vast aranya.

You could leave now, his mind prodded. You could leave and avoid death. Live life without rule or obligation. You could escape. And for a fleeting second, Raa One considered it. He contemplated giving up, abandoning the privileges that had been bestowed upon him. Yet, his secret Teacher’s words echoed in his ears. "It is moments of fear that determine who you are. They hold up a mirror to your true self and reveal the truth. Mortality is not a weakness. It is shakti. Strength. It strips you of your armor, and forces you to look at yourself as a common Narakan. Prince aside, that is what you are. Even now, he could see the weight in The Teacher’s eyes. But you can choose to be more. Choices are aplenty Raa One. Make the right one."

The Teacher was right. His words empowered the young Asuran prince; Shiva’s strength filled Raa One’s body with confidence. He would return from the forest Twice-Born. Dvija. Shuk Raa gave too much importance to the Trial of Seven Days; he made it out to seem as if it was Raa One’s true path to mastery. Raa One’s secret Teacher had laughed at the finality of that assessment. Mastery isn’t some armor you put on, nor an unusual talisman you find, fight for, and wear about your neck, he had said. "Mastery is the journey of many lifetimes, not a reward for mere survival in the Trial. The day you accept responsibility for every one of your words, thoughts, actions ––that is the day you become an adult. And the day you take as your responsibility the lives of others and guard them as your own? That is the day you become a Twice-Born Asura."

His secret Teacher’s words demanded attention, flowing through his mind almost as if the older man were right there, whispering in his ear. Not Shuk Raa, not the one who taught him the art of state and war and literature, natural sciences and etiquette and philosophy in the Siddhi Nivas, the Hall of Mastery. Not Shuk Raa, rajguru or royal high priest of the Asuran royals, the one to whom his sister Soor Pan and his brother Koom Karn and their cousins bowed at their daily lessons.

No. Raa One had another master, a Teacher that his mother had secreted him to even as a child, leaving behind a double at the palace. In anticipation of the Trial, his secret Teacher had been instrumental in ways Shuk Raa could never be.

"Yuvaraaja Raa One. We must proceed." High Priest Shuk Raa, the Teacher of all noble Asuras, was a tall and hawk-nosed man. The ornaments of his office - silver and gold and flashing ruby - dangled from silk raiment. He was not overly given to cheer, his rare smile akin to a painful grimace.

He was not smiling now. Instead, as he poured honey and milk over the smooth cylindrical granite lingam of their God, he chanted,

सर्व सुगन्ध सुलेपिथ लिङ्गम |

बुद्धिविवर्धन कारण लिङ्गम ||

सिद्ध सुरासुर वन्दित लिङ्गम |

तत् प्रणामिसदाशिव लिङ्गम ||

"I bow before that Sada Shiva Linga,

Lavishly smeared with variegated perfumes and scents,

That which elevates the power of thought, enkindles the light of discrimination, And before which the Siddhas and Asuras prostrate."

"My Prince, you must now stand and pronounce the mantras, the words of initiation, he intoned. Your spirit, your aatman, awaits its destiny."

Er, right, Rajguru Shuk Raa, Raa One said, adjusting the silken white dhoti wrapped around his legs and knotted at the waist, as he stood up. I was just pondering a moment.

Destiny, Destiny, Destiny. Hum Bah! muttered Soor Pan, Raa One’s younger sister, and more insolent sibling. The impudence that Raa One and Koom Karn nurtured in the safety of their minds, Soor Pan felt free to shout aloud. They had paid for it time and again, of course, brothers and sister. Can we get the mantras and fancy speeches over with, so he can say goodbye to his family?

It’s not goodbye, Koom Karn hissed. He’s coming back. He’ll survive. Don’t say it’s goodbye.

Soor Pan snorted in irritation, and in a smooth, practiced motion, adjusted her voluminous sari and moved over to sit behind Raa One, performing her best ‘noblewoman’s affronted huff.’

It wasn’t good acting. Soor Pan did a good affronted huff, but not much of what she did could be called noble-womanly. Instead, Soor Pan was all flash and fire and full of the music of the veena, or chordophone.

Princess, High Priest Shuk Raa admonished, you are not to approach your brother during the Intonation of the Trial of Seven Days, as he utters the sacred mantras. However, familial farewells are permitted later, an integral part of the Trial ceremony.

Soor Pan huffed and stalked back to queen Kaikesi, several yards away.

And Father’s electing not to come from the Nagan battle-front? Raa One wondered silently. Is that an integral part of the Trial ceremony?

Raa One, the priest said as he poured ghee or clarified butter into the fire, "please chant the sacred incantations, the mantras."

Raa One sighed and nodded, turning once more to face the jungle from his seat at the Shri Mahadev Yaagamandapa temple, a jewel of his city, Lanka. The walls of the temple were adorned with frescoes of the life of Shiva the Destroyer.

The forest breathed, and reached, and waited. As it always did.

I come here a boy, born and strengthened by the blood and wisdom of my fathers. The words rolled off his tongue like the oldest song, like the lightest laugh, as natural as breathing. But his heart was far away. I come here to test myself against the jungle and to rise above its challenges. The spirit of my forefathers Pulastya Asura, Shankaasura, and that of my father, Vish Rav Asura, dwells within me. Shiva, Destroyer of Evil, ever infuses me with courage. I am an Asuran noble, and all I need is within me. I shall not fail. For the Gods. For my forefathers. For family. For Lanka.

His words ended, whisking from his lips like lamplight from a snuffed diya. Their effect drifted out across the forest, and he felt the leaves stir ever so slightly in response.

The forest waited.

Having uttered the sacred words, he stood silently as Shuk Raa murmured the final mantras of the Shiva pooja and signed the customary marks across his body.

You are small as the leaf is small. As the ant is small. As the viper is small. Each in the way of its nature, each in the way of its perfection.

Only Raa One wasn’t a leaf. An ant. A viper. Raa One wasn’t even a simha, a lion, king of all the beasts of Naraka.

Raa One was an Asuran noble. Each in the way of its perfection.

It does not matter that I am an intruder in the jungle, Raa One murmured, because mine is a more powerful kingdom.

What did you say? High Priest Shuk Raa asked, stony brows furrowing into a scowl.

I need to say goodbye now, Raa One said, turning back to his family without waiting for the High Priest’s word. No need to wait. He knew the ritual by heart and that he could leave without offending the gods.

First, he hugged Koom Karn, tall and somber in his scarred dueling leathers. Ever practical, Raa One’s brother hadn’t bothered to change into the customary silk dhoti and angarkha jacket. He’d be back at practice just as soon as the ceremony was over. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for Raa One––very much the opposite. It was just that he couldn’t do anything to reverse what had been set in motion. He’d known the Trial was coming and processed his emotions as best he could. Koom Karn would ride out the storm of worry he felt for his brother the only way he knew––by throwing himself into study and practice. By training hard and long in the martial and magical arts of his kingdom. By challenging himself so thoroughly that he could spare no fear for his brother’s well-being.

Not so Soor Pan.

"Maybe I can just meet up with you after the pooja, the ceremony! she’d urged the night before, in another of her relentless attempts. I can slip out of the city palace through the southeast peacock gate before anyone knows I’m gone, and we can face the aranya toge––"

That’s cheating, Soor Pan, Raa One had interrupted with a sigh. "As is supplying me with secret weapons, extra supplies, Father’s atharva talismans, or any of the other things you’ve suggested. Cheating will disqualify me."

Only if you’re caught. Only if they find out.

"I’ll know, Raa One said with conviction. Whether I’m caught or not, it doesn’t matter. Either way, I would not have completed the Trial of Seven Days. Either way, I would not be Twice-Born ...."

* * *

Brother! Soor Pan’s laugh snapped him back to the present. She prodded him playfully, pulling on his yagnopaveeth, his sacred thread, smudging the three horizontal lines of sacred ash on his bare chest. She tried but failed to hide the anxiety in her eyes. The dusky lilac paint across her lids was streaked with tears that she attempted to brush away. Not drifting off already, are you? That comes later when the wily monster Mohini snares you with a seductive look and drinks all your heart’s bleeding love until you die.

Ever encouraging, sister, he tried to gild his voice with the lightness they customarily shared but could not overcome the gravity of the moment. It wasn’t that he was afraid of dying. Not even of failing. At least not for himself.

No. What I’m deeply afraid of is what they will all think if I should fail. Of the twisted fury on father’s face.

"You come back to us safe and sound, foolish kushmanda melon... Soor Pan whispered, jabbing him again. This is what you get for wanting to be the earliest Twice-Born among us."

Raa One forced a laugh. His sister’s humor suffered when she was worried. "Hey, I’m no fool and hardly dvija yet, Soor Pan. Not yet. Give me a week."

And at last, my matr, Kaikesi, always dignified and gentle. Her eyes, brimming with tears, burned into his. The most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. They gave him everything he needed.

Mother, he smiled weakly.

You come back to me, she whispered, enfolding him in her embrace and kissing him upon the brow. "You come back to me strong and dvija, my future Maharaja."

Come, my Prince, High Priest Shuk Raa intoned, beckoning from a distance. His voice was softer than before, but only slightly.

Raa One went, stooping on the way to take up his supplies: A light store of salted and dried goat mamsa, a buffalo skin water mashaka bag, clean linen uttariya, sacred vibhuti or ash, a copper cooking pot, his hunting khukri knives, a light-weight bronze dhanush or bow, and several bronze-tipped arrows. The final hymns were then sung by Shuk Raa’s brahmin bards, three horizontal lines of sacred ash placed upon his forehead, and a concluding round of prayers to Lord Shiva.

When the yagna, the sacrifice, was complete, High Priest Shuk Raa nodded. Raa One turned and bowed, once, to all the people watching. Their faces were pale blurs, their multi-colored lenghas or skirts, saris, and angarkhas melding together into a haze of insignificance.

His family was solemn. Watching.

Then he turned, walked out of the southeast Mayur Raajadhvaara, the peacock gate of the great city his father had built, and let himself be swallowed by the forest.

Thus, did Raa One, first-born of Vish Rav, sovereign of Asuras on Naraka, begin his Twice-Born dvija Trial.

* * *

A few hours passed. The forest deepened. Rosewood, banyan, shaala, and dipterocarp trees became taller and more robust, older, and brooding. With the rising canopy, the wind grew more distant, gliding with a whisper far above and leaving the underside filled only with the insufferable heat, steam, and cacophony of the jungle.

The timbre of the noise changed as well. In the outer parts, near Asurapura, it was a lighter and softer thing, dampened by Asurankind’s weight upon the realm of Naraka. Here though, farther in, everywhere were explosions of birdsong, the churr of insects, and the barking and screeching chaos of the howler monkeys.

As he rounded a bend fringed with a large limestone boulder overgrown with thunbergia vines, he tripped on a tree root and fell flat on his face in the dirt. Angrily picking himself up, he brushed the dust from his eyes, and that’s when he saw the high mark on the tree. A giant bolt of lightning in white painted on the most massive shaala he had ever seen. That was the Devan sign to turn back. To go past the sign was forbidden to all Narakans. Raa One felt the jungle thrumming through him, an infinity of lives woven together so thick and inextricable that they formed one vast primeval breathing melody.

To go forward was only peril.

I will be alright, Raa One asserted as he bounded forth past the shaala, rounding a hilltop and pausing to take his bearings. There’s nothing I can’t handle with my dhanush. My khukris and Asuran magic. I just need to remember what The Teacher and Shuk Raa have taught me. Listen to the beasts of the ground, the fowl of the air, the insects on the trees, and read their signs. Understand their ways of thinking yet keep yourself above them. Become the wild and yet remain distinct. Play the melodies of the aranya when it suits you and rise above them when it does not.

The role of the dvija, Shuk Raa whispered in his ear, is to take dominion over Asurapura and nurture it to fullness. To rule with strength but understanding, ripening all things in their way and pruning all things as they become unneeded.

Raa One snorted. He liked Shuk Raa well enough, but the man was only a common high priest. He wasn’t anything like Raa One’s secret Teacher.

How can we gain dominion over Asurapura, he muttered, if we can’t even gain dominion over ourselves? Out there, alone in the aranya, he could speak freely of his feelings toward the hated Devan conquerors. After their victory in the great battles and The Accords that followed, the Devas demanded that Naraka bow to their Emperor Indra’s rule. For hundreds of years, four of Naraka’s five races had continued to do so. Devan officials had become an integral part of every kingdom’s hierarchy, interwoven through chains of command of the ruling houses of Asuras, Rakshasas, Nagas, or Vidyadharas. The Kinnaras were the nomadic, hybrid horse-Narakan species. They were too wild and war-like to be subdued even by the Devas.

The four so-called civilized kingdoms of Naraka were content to help the Devas build massive defensive forts at the edges of their domains. They trusted the Devas to keep the marauding Kinnaras at bay without invading their abodes - the vast steppe to the northwest, and the already impenetrable desert that lay in the west.

The nobles of each Narakan kingdom were largely left to their own devices by the Devas. They were free to govern their people and enjoy the luxuries of aristocracy, so long as they honored Devan sovereignty and paid the heavy yearly tribute, bali.

Then there were the overlords, the aloof Prajapatis. Though technically responsible for governing the three known realms, they mostly seemed content to observe from their high perch as Naraka’s conflicts ran their course. Again, so long as everything went smoothly.

So long as things go smoothly for the Devas. The Prajapatis did not seem to care much if the kingdoms of Naraka tore each other apart. So long as they felt ‘balance’ was preserved on the realms of Naraka, Swarga, and Bhooloka. Whatever ‘balance’ meant.

Hence Raa One’s bitterness.

"Pitr really should have come," he told himself, hitching his supplies higher on his back and heading off down the hill. My father… Raa One felt a wave of anger rising in his belly, of familiar scorn towards the king. And then, with a deep breath, he swore and shifted his focus back to the trail.

The game trail he was on was little more than a scratch of dust through a band of aam or mango trees, and overgrown vines so thick they looked like they might suffocate him if he tried to walk through them. The jungle was hopelessly chaotic, and Raa One knew he had to find clean water before the day was done.

Priority one? Shuk Raa had demanded.

Water, fresh and running, he sighed and slapped away an obnoxious fly, wishing it were a mosquito. Mosquitos meant water was close, though usually stagnant. Wherever there was stagnant water, there might be running water close. Possibly. Theoretically.

All I’ve got is bloody theories, he thought. Theories, and hours of being stalked by Shuk Raa’s minions and having to evade them. Hardly a substitute for a wild makara, a water demon, or a hungry lion.

The mango trees were heavy with delicious looking aam, and the thunbergia vines on either side were silent. The jungle waited. His skin prickled every time he thought of it too long, so he tried to forge ahead and listen to his thoughts.

Priority two? Shuk Raa had continued.

Shelter, Raa One grunted, pushing through the dense foliage until suddenly, he found himself at a ridge with a rather steep valley between where he stood and the next hill. If there isn’t water at the base of this valley, there certainly will be some at the next.

He hoped to find a pool, follow its feeding stream up to a precise point, and then look for an elevated outcropping nearby. That’s where he would build a shelter. One that affords both safety and a view, I hope.

If Raa One had to choose, however, he preferred a vantage point. He didn’t care if his enemies came; he only wanted to see them coming. It was the place of Nagas to hide, the hybrid snake-Narakan species. And of mooshika, fearful mice.

The role of the Twice-Born dvija, he chanted in his mind. To take dominion over Asurapura and nurture it to fullness.

Raa One was sure he was on his way to being Twice-Born as he carefully navigated down the ridge. Pitr should have come. It was as if Lord Vish Rav had centuries’ worth of Naraka’s rage boiling inside him. Because he couldn’t direct it at its source––the Devas––he let it flail wildly across his realm, sparking conflict where peace might reign and consuming his attention with wars against the Nagas and Rakshasas. Instead of transmuting it, perhaps even with Asuran magic, into love. Love for his family. Love for his eldest son.

Someday, perhaps, he’ll dissolve his anger and remember the daily trials and tribulations of his kin, his family, his people— and that of his firstborn.

The valley he had entered didn’t have a water source in the end, but a red-faced malkoha cuckoo with a long, graduated, green tail greeted Raa One with repeated high-pitched shrieks at the Asuran prince’s intrusion. The valley after that was even steeper, with Raa One sweating profusely as he pushed onward. He finally arrived at a pool, but it was small and dank and filled from everywhere at once, from tiny chinks in the rocks, dripping symphonies from long-legged cricket frogs sitting on moss-covered stones. A streamlet that arrived from up-valley trickled into the pool.

Sighing and adjusting his quiver, Raa One forged upstream. Barking deer and blue magpies announced his presence to the rest of the aranya. His trek upstream didn’t seem to promise much better, but it was the best chance he had.

In the end, he traced narrow jungle passages up two more ridges and three more valleys before he found fresh water. The sun had not yet set; he considered it a day well utilized. The spring gurgled, sparkling, bubbling up from the ridge above on a pad of verdant moss, frogs and skinks scrambling away as he arrived.

The broad, bald face of a massive granite boulder thrust up from the base of a grove of shaala trees on the edge of the flowing water. Relieved, Raa One clambered around and up, shrugging off his dhanush, quiver, pack, mashaka, and khukri knives with a sigh.

I pushed myself hard today. Too hard, perhaps. Shuk Raa would have disapproved, and mother would certainly have thrown a fit.

The Teacher, however, would have grinned and nodded slowly, clapping his characteristic clap. It was a gesture that made him uncertain about whether he was being mocked or praised. Nevertheless, my lessons with The Teacher since I was a child prepared me for this very day.

Raa One was glad he’d found water. The goat mamsa jerky will keep my hunger at bay for at least one more day.

He’d been trained for this, surviving for days and nights in the jungle on roots, berries, and wild bananas. He’d even gone a spell without water––a full forty hours until The Teacher had threatened to hang him by his ears if he didn’t stop.

Even The Teacher shows compassion on occasion, he thought with a wry grin. Lately, the wise old man didn’t seem to push Raa One as hard as the prince pushed himself.

I will conquer the Trial and return home triumphant. Twice-Born, making my father and ancestors proud. Then, Father will perhaps regret the fact that he doesn’t even know the man I’ve become.

As the sun dipped to touch the horizon, spilling out its molten brilliance and burning up the western sky, Raa One set his camp in order. First, he cut himself a supple thunbergia vine and hung his pack and mashaka on a branch of the shaala nearest the boulder, where none but those strong enough to break through treated leather might hope to reach. Then he shouldered his bow and descended to the spring, drinking a couple of mouthfuls before rescaling the rock and settling down in a meditative kamala, or lotus position, back to the jungle and facing out over the foliage from his cliff-like perch.

Picking up his rudraksha beads, he closed his eyes, breathed deep ujjayi yoga breaths, and let his being flow through his body and out into the surroundings. Using the name of Neelakanta, the One the ancient texts said had swallowed the deadly poison Hala-Hala to save the Universe, Raa One chanted...

मृत्युञ्जयाय रुद्राय नीलकन्ताय शंभवे |

अमृतेषाय सर्वाय महादेवाय ते नमः ||

"Oh Lord Rudra-Shiva, you are the One who has conquered death and are responsible for the destruction of the Universe to let life again prevail on earth.

Oh Lord, you are Neelakanta as you have a blue throat. We pay obeisance to you, Lord, with our hands folded in namaskar."

High Priest Shuk Raa would probably call chanting at a time and place like this foolish. But Shuk Raa knows not the least of my abilities, nothing of the white and dark arts I have learned and mastered under The Teacher’s tutelage. Chanting a joining mantra through his mind, Raa One wove himself through the forest. He felt every fiber of energy around him. The energy that flows through the roots of trees all around me. The energy of the wind on the leaves, that of animals large and small. He felt it all, and yet he kept himself distinct. Always when they spoke of meditation, the great rishis or seers spoke of being One—of connecting to the Divine that was in all creation.

But The Teacher and I keep ourselves distinct. Nature is Divine, and yes, I am part of creation. But I am not merely the essence of the jungle––I am much more. I am the spear-tip, the pinnacle of consciousness, the highest kalasa, or finial, of the great temple of Asurankind.

I am the Divinity and the Being and the Purpose, and the Teacher has taught me that I am right to keep myself distinct.

Raa One climbed back to the boulder. Just as he began to fully settle in, he grew bored. Perhaps two hours had passed, no more. The Teacher would not have been pleased with his impatience.

But there was just so much life around him. He couldn’t weave himself through the forest and then ignore it. He had to feel it.

Darkness fell during his spiritual vigil. The utter cacophony of jungle life that was the night made the chaos of the day look dull. Insects were everywhere, churring and clicking, agamids and beetles, all adding their sounds to the symphony. Bullfrogs thundered in the water down below, and the shuffling of a somewhat larger creature disturbed the brush off to one side. Probably a deer, for it moved away quickly.

The canopy stretched out below him, the mantle of the dark sky bathed by stars.

Hmm, he muttered, curling up with his bow and arrows close to hand. Tomorrow, I’ll work on a shelter first thing, but tonight, the cloudless sky promises not to send its usual downpour.

He kept a tendril of thought half alert, weaving another mantra in a breathing-dream state. If anything came to bother him, he’d be able to detect it and react swiftly.

Still, rather less action than I’d expected. Isn’t this place supposed to hide pit vipers, lions, and other perilous dangers? At the palace, he had the company of Soor Pan’s constant wit, his mother’s nagging, and Shuk Raa’s strict rules.

Hmm. . . Perhaps the beings of the aranya sense my powers and stay away.

Soor Pan was livid. No. Livid isn’t the right word. Irritated, though that too is a touch off.

Miffed, perhaps, she said, nodding at its sound. "I’m miffed. By Kaala, Har Shaa. If he does it anymore, I’ll get irritated, and then it’s far beyond livid. I’ll explode. I’ll kill him."

That would be a thing to see, Har Shaa grinned. "The daughter of the Maharaja going at it with High Priest Shuk Raa, head of all Shiva temples on Naraka."

"You just watch me, she growled. He tries anything like that with me, and you’ll see it soon enough." Shuk Raa had said her brother Koom Karn was ‘sulking’ about Raa One facing the Trial before he could. Sulking, when the younger prince ought to have thanked the ancient shaastras, or laws, for their clear stipulation that the eldest son of the King attempted the Trial first.

Sulking, by which Shuk Raa meant Koom Karn had been devoting more time to practising sword-fighting with his khanda, his double-edged straight sword, and less to performing fire sacrifices. A noble decision, she thought.

The shaastras say only boys get to perform fire sacrifices and learn battle spells, she complained. As far as I can see, chattering into the sacrificial fire and paying fat, bald men who sit around and chant all day is hardly helpful. Much better to practice sparring with Uncle Akam Panaa. That way, if Raa One does manage to survive the Trial of Seven Days but can’t find his way back, we’ll be prepared to go in and save him when he needs it.

Fat, bald men, who sit around and chant all day? Har Shaa looked horrified. "Those aren’t the words you used, right?"

Soor Pan sniffed and glanced away. Well, she muttered, I may have thrown in an adjective or two.

"But you called Shuk Raa’s priests fat?"

सत्यमेव जयते नानृतं | Truth ultimately triumphs, not falsehood, the Vedas say.

And bald!

सत्येन विधृतं सर्वं सर्वं सत्ये परतिष्ठितम | Everything is upheld by truth, and everything rests upon truth, so say or do it even if it’s hard, the Vedas say.

And you said the ancient laws wouldn’t help? Har Shaa clutched his head in both hands and looked away, muttering in distress.

Look! Soor Pan snapped. "Shuk Raa was getting on my nerves. He’s always saying our ancestors watch. They judge. And he accused me of trying to supply Raa One with special weapons and talismans."

You were, Har Shaa pointed out.

"Yes, but Raa One would never take them! He’s far too noble. Shuk Raa should know that by now."

Ah. So, you’re offended on Raa One’s account, not yours.

Exactly.

"Ever the selfless saadhvi." Har Shaa enfolded her in his bronzed arms, thrumming with the warmth and vigor of the Sun Elemental. He’d packed away the warm chuba robe and felt trousers necessary for the ride from the Peaks, and put on a cotton robe and pants. She liked the way his bare arms flexed when they curved around her. She savored the subtle ways the muscles of his forearms danced across her stomach. She adored his musk.

I don’t know why mother makes me wear a sari every day, she pouted. "All these drapes and paints and heavy gold jewelry. It’s like I’m a mani-pradipa, a chandelier, not a person. How am I supposed to climb?" She jerked a thumb, indicating their perch high on a giant shaala at the edge of the aranya, where Har Shaa had flown them on his pisacha, Uluka. His dragon allowed him to travel high in the clouds as he explored the far reaches of Naraka. The Vidyadharan prince lived as one with the high Peaks of the northeast, vast forests of deodhar and pine trees. A simpler life, trying to rediscover the fundamental ways of Narakankind. As did the sapta kula, the seven clans of his people.

As Har Shaa would put it, trying to rediscover the art of living in Oneness with Goddess Shakti. All that had faded; so many ancient ways, Songs, and bonds with the One had been lost. All he had was his bond with Uluka.

That was something Soor Pan loved about him, among so many other things. The way he doted on his pisacha. His fluency with Samskritam, the Asuran language, for another. Were all Vidyadharan tribes multi-lingual? Soor Pan wondered.

Har Shaa gave himself entirely to the creed of his people, holding nothing back. The Vidyadharas had found early in the evolution of their civilization that material and ephemeral substances exist and subsist in terms of elaborate, interdependent, and malleable contexts and relationships. They believed from their earliest days that interconnection was the key to their survival as a species, not only on the physical plane but on social and political strata as well.­­

His deep love of his people and their ways­­ makes him alive and fierce, but at the same time gentle, innocent, and kind, Soor Pan thought. Her own brothers, Raa One and Koom Karn, were mostly fire and passion. They took after Father. Pitr…

Soor Pan, look at me, his breath was warm upon her bejeweled neck.

She glanced up at him.

I see you, he said. "I see your worry. I see how deeply you care for Raa One. But don’t let your worry eat you up from the inside. Don’t fear for your jyeshta’s life. So many, far weaker than he, have made it a week in the jungle. Raa One will survive."

I’m not worried! She protested. I’m––

Right now, you’re wielding a tongue as sharp and as childish as your fop cousin Dush-Ana, he chuckled. Everyone knows you have a sharp wit. But when you’re as childish as this, I know something’s amiss. You’re trying to mask your worry, I understand. But look at me. No, really, look at me. Raa One will be safe. Say it.

She sighed and stuck out her tongue but quickly turned away before he could see her genuine emotion. The truth was, Har Shaa had