When Devils Sing(74)

Kiran rounded on Nanaji then, her rage redirecting toward him. “You pushed my goddamn kid?”

Nanaji didn’t respond as he collapsed onto his knees beside the open guitar case. The sight of the unscathed instrument seemingly knocked the air from his lungs. It was as if he couldn’t hear them at all. He merely stared down at the guitar, mumbling in rapid Punjabi. The way he looked at the Yamaha was different than before. Her grandfather was no longer enraged at the sight of it, but deeply afraid. His wrinkled hands hovered over the wooden body, shaking again, but he didn’t dare touch it. Could he feel the wrongness that surrounded it after Neera had pulled it from the buck’s gut?

Because the Yamaha was no longer a precious gift from Ajay, but a bloody offering from the devil.

“Dad?” The smallness of Kiran’s voice surprised Neera. Her mom’s anger quickly gave way to concern. She knelt beside Nanaji on the ground, clutching his arm and shoulder. “Dad, just breathe. Breathe with me, okay? What’s wrong?”

Nanaji responded in strained Punjabi. He clutched his chest, pulling at the collar of his shirt. His brown skin turned ashen in the dim light from the motel’s walkway. Was he having another heart attack? A stroke? Neera didn’t know what those looked like in real life. She was too scared to move, for fear she’d finally drive her grandfather to the point of no return.

“Should I call an ambulance?” Neera asked weakly.

“No, don’t,” Kiran said, yet she and Nanaji continued the conversation in Punjabi, a hurried back and forth, push and pull.

“What’re you saying?” she asked.

“He’s not making any sense,” Kiran began, struggling to meet Neera’s gaze from the ground. “It’s gibberish … I don’t know.”

“Mom,” Neera pushed, growing more anxious by the second. “Tell me.”

“He’s saying—” Kiran’s voice was tense, hesitant. With a shake of her head, she muttered, “He’s saying you’re cursed.”

“Cursed?” A pained, hysterical laugh bubbled up from Neera’s chest. The humid night crowded around her as the weight of the word took root in her bones. She knelt before her mom and grandfather, forcing him to look her in the eyes. She was done living in fear of Nanaji. He’d already done the worst thing imaginable to her, and she survived it. She had nothing left to lose. “That’s a fucked-up thing to say to your granddaughter.”

“Neera.” Kiran spoke her name like a threat, her dark eyes turning hard. Slowly, she warned, “Do not speak to him like that.”

“I’m not taking his shit anymore,” Neera said as she jerked the case away from Nanaji, shutting the clasps with deft hands. “And you shouldn’t, either.”

“You are not my dohti,” Nanaji spat, his breath short and haggard. “You have never been my dohti.”

Kiran’s eyes went wide. “Dad, stop.”

Neera didn’t need to be fluent in Punjabi to understand what he meant.

Dohti.

Daughter’s daughter.

Suddenly, she was five years old again, crying at the feet of the devil, begging him to make her grandparents love her. Crow had promised they would one day, but he never said when that day would come. She supposed thirteen years wasn’t enough time for Nanaji. But she was tired of waiting. And as it was, time was no longer on their sides.

“I’m done,” Neera whispered. She rose from the ground with shaky legs, the Yamaha’s case clutched tightly against her chest. “I’m done wishing you’ll finally love me. I don’t want it anymore. You have all this anger and pain inside you and it’s killing you. It’s killing all of us.”

It killed Ajay.

Nanaji had wanted life to be better for his children. He needed all his sacrifices to be worth it: leaving his life in Punjab, then leaving their little Punjabi community in England, starting entirely over in the Land of Opportunity that shouted for the Singhs to go back to where they came from.

In the end, his sacrifices hadn’t been worth it. He had more debt than he could ever possibly pay off. His only son was dead. His daughter was a failure. And Neera—what exactly was she to him? What did he see when he looked at her?

That night, Neera saw only hate in her grandfather’s eyes.

Perhaps, Neera embodied all his failings, wrapped up in one person. She was the product of her mom’s teenage pregnancy, diluting the Singh bloodline with some stranger’s DNA. She carried Ajay’s passion for playing music like a torch, unwilling to consider any path other than the one he’d died desperately pursuing. She was brash and defiant and just as stubborn as he was.

In that way alone, they were alike.

“Both of you, just stop,” Kiran pleaded, looking between them. The whites of her eyes were red from crying. It was clear her mom didn’t know which one of them to defend, which one to condemn. Perhaps there was a kernel of truth to every awful thing spoken that night, despite how painful it was to admit.

“You know what? Maybe … maybe I am cursed,” Neera began slowly. “But I think we’re all cursed, and I’m gonna be the one to break it. Listen to me, Nanaji. I’m not gonna let us die here. You’ve practically given up, but I refuse to let us die in Carrion.”

Somewhere in the black sky above, a crow called. The steady flap of its wings echoed through the air. Goose bumps rose on Neera’s arms at the closeness of it. Had Crow been watching the fight unfold? Was the devil listening to every damning word?