There were other scrolls too, about which penances would help someone obtain boons from the gods. Except these were no use, as they all required the gods to answer in the first place.
Finally, I gently unfurled a scroll that was so thin and worn it seemed to have been written over one hundred years ago. Its edges were frayed, and the patterns of the language hard to decipher. I turned my attention to the neat rows of text and tried to remember my tutors’ lessons as I used my finger to trace each word.
About halfway through, I realized this text made no mention at all of gods. It was simply a meditation exercise.
I threw it aside, frustrated. After a moment, I pulled a small box of sweets from under my bed and ate one, then another and another. Slowly my anger dissipated, the sugar softening the hard knot within me. I licked my fingers clean.
Calmer, I reread the title of the scroll: “Summoning the Power of the Gods by Concentration Alone.” Perhaps it was a meditation ritual that would bring general godly attention? I laid the paper down in front of me and performed each of the steps in turn: I slowed my breath, fixed my gaze at a point one hand’s length from my solar plexus, concentrated my energy, and—
I must have mistranslated, for the next step, to my best estimation, read, “Let your gaze slip into the Binding Plane. If you have trouble locating such a place, seek out the threads that connect you and use the words of focus given below.”
This sounded like nonsense. But still, I had nothing else to try. I committed them to memory.
My breathing slowed and I stared ahead of me, focusing as hard as I could, then recited the syllables.
Nothing happened.
I tried again, and again. Nothing. The scroll provided no further insight, for the last few lines merely stated that this art was impossible to master by all but a select few.
I set the scroll down, tears stinging my eyes. Another day, another failure. I could not bring my mother back. I remembered what Prasad had said last night about why my mother left, and anger welled up in me at the idea that my father was responsible. It did not matter what my mother had done. How could he do this to me? My brothers needed her too, but what was I to do without her guidance? A tear slipped down my cheek, then another and another, as I gathered all the scrolls in a haphazard pile and pushed them under my bed. I curled up on top of the covers until dinnertime. Then I washed my face and joined my brothers, all of us silent and pale-faced.
The kitchens must have been trying to cheer us up—the table was laden with trays of hot roti glistening with ghee, delicately spiced vegetables sending a delicious fragrance into the air, and fresh yogurt dotted with bright pomegranate. Ordinarily such a feast would’ve been a treat, all of us negotiating for the largest portions—but today all it did was reinforce the fact that we were to be pitied, for our mother was gone.
That night, as Manthara combed out my hair in long, gentle strokes, I asked, “What did my mother do?” If anyone knew, it would be Manthara. She was my mother’s age and had been my servant as long as I could remember, attending my mother before that. She was my favorite person in the world besides Yudhajit, the one who nursed me when I was ill, sat by my side if I was afraid of monsters at night, or wiped my tears away when my brothers pushed me down.
Manthara started. “Why do you think she did something?”
“I—” I knew I could not lie to Manthara, and so after a half-hearted second of considering it, I told her the truth. “I overheard someone talking.”
She sighed, her movement pausing. I turned to look at her. Her nearly black eyes were soft, sad, and the dupatta she usually wore over her head had slipped down to her bun. “Kekaya would never willingly leave you, child.”
“Then why did she make Father—”
“She did not force the raja to do anything,” Manthara said. “I doubt anyone could.”
She returned to combing out my hair, cool fingers brushing against my neck and providing some small relief from the pressing heat. I remained quiet. I knew her well enough to suspect she had more to say.
Some time passed before Manthara asked, “Do you know about your father’s boon?”
This question surprised me. Boons were powerful gifts, granted by the gods to those mortals who had won their favor through their piety or goodness or courage, after they prayed and fasted and performed intricate rituals. People who received boons rarely discussed them, as they did not wish to lose their gifts through arrogance or carelessness.
But I was aware of my father’s gift—it had been granted many years ago, for his steadfast devotion to Lord Vishnu. It was a boon I found oddly whimsical, when I considered my distant and pragmatic father. I nodded, then hissed in pain as the motion caused the comb to catch on a particularly nasty tangle. “Yes. He can understand the language of birds.”