Secrets

Ghosha placed a wooden bowl and a lamp on the table next to Dhara’s bed, where Sakhi had been ensconced since the fire. The smell of barley gruel rose with the steam.

“I’m not hungry.” It had been a week since the fire, but her fever had broken just two days ago. She could still barely think, much less eat. When she slept, her mother’s agonized screams filled her dreams. Waking was worse. Her mother and father were gone. She was alone.

“You must get your strength back,” Ghosha began. She lifted the bandage to examine the pink skin underneath. “It’s much better. You’ll be ready to get out of bed soon.”

“Oh, Ghosha, what am I to do? Where am I to go?” She started to cry.

“Poor motherless one. Dandapani and Atimaya will care for you.” Ghosha hugged Sakhi, enveloping her in the scent of wood smoke, sour sweat, and some pungent herb. “They feel terrible about everything.”

Sakhi drew away. Her own mother had always had a slight odor of sandalwood incense about her, the family’s one true extravagance. Agastya believed that one couldn’t really pray without it. But the sandalwood was gone, along with her father’s singing bowl and the little chest, burned with the house. Sakhi wiped her eyes. “I don’t think Dandapani really knew… ”

Ghosha grunted. “Atimaya did.” She shook her head. “That one. All her mother’s spirit and pride, but none of Yasodhara’s wisdom.” The old midwife plumped the bolster and helped Sakhi sit higher. “You’re too young to remember Yasodhara.” She held the bowl up to Sakhi’s lips.

“Too hot.” Sakhi turned away.

Ghosha put the bowl down. “Ah, child, you must eat.”

“Let it cool.” Sakhi leaned back and sighed. “I do remember. Dhara adored her. She was so sad when she died.” Her throat constricted.

“Once Dhara’s grandfather died, Yasodhara became a shell of herself. Like your mother, when your father died.” Sakhi started to weep again. “Oh, forgive me, child. Cry, cry,” Ghosha said, enfolding her again. “You’ll feel better.” This time Sakhi did not draw away.

When her tears ended, Sakhi felt drained but well enough to indulge her curiosity. “Did Yasodhara really slip into the ravine and die? That’s what Atimaya said.”

Ghosha picked up the bowl. “Atimaya wants to keep up appearances, but truth cannot hide forever.”

“I don’t know everything,” Sakhi said.

Ghosha laughed. “We do keep things from you young ones. Maybe it’s time you heard the tale.”

“So it’s true?” Sakhi had heard the whispers. It had made her fear her mother would throw herself into the ravine. “She killed herself?”

“Yasodhara wanted life on her own terms, or not at all. So strong she was. When she first came here, she boxed my ears once, as if I were a serving girl and not a mistress of spells!” She chuckled. “I threatened some curse or other, and she looked me in the eye and dared me to do it. Said a witch couldn’t frighten one who had royal Sakyan blood in her veins. ‘We have powers, too, the women of our line.’ Only Dhara’s grandfather could handle her. Old Anjana was a rare man.” Ghosha sighed. “Still. That woman was the closest thing I ever had to a friend.” She began to dab ointment on Dhara’s burns.

“You were friends?” Sakhi prompted, imagining Dhara’s stern-faced grandmother and wrinkled Ghosha as young women sharing secrets under their blanket.

“Good. A little smile.” Ghosha finished tending the wounds. “And who but each other did we have in this wild place?” the shaman’s wife continued. “Koli women are bold and hard-working, but not bright. Few men ever appreciate intelligence in a woman. Old Anjana was an exception, and my Garuda, too.” She picked up the bowl of gruel. “Here, take a mouthful.”

Sakhi took the bowl with shaking hands and sipped. “What powers did old Yasodhara have?” What powers did her granddaughter Dhara have, was the unspoken question. As she wiped her chin, Sakhi’s heart beat a little faster, thinking of her disembodied vision in the burning house.

“More, child,” the shaman’s wife said. Sakhi took another mouthful. “Yasodhara had the gift of foresight.” Ghosha picked up a strip of cloth and began to wind it around Sakhi’s ankle. “She did well to have Anjana for a husband. He was a good, brave man. He used to tease Yasodhara in front of everyone about how inbred the Sakyan royal line was. He said it’s what gave her such a temper. ‘The Gautama family all turn out to be demons or sages,’ he used to say, ‘and you, who are half my being, are a little of both.’ You would think she would have exploded, but it always made her laugh and forget her anger.”

Ghosha wound the bandage in silence as Sakhi’s thoughts whirled. It felt very grown-up to be told tales that were only whispered about. “But what about Atimaya? And her sisters? Do they have gifts, too?” And what about Dhara?

The shaman’s wife continued bandaging as she talked, and the pressure on Sakhi’s ankle grew uncomfortable, but she didn’t interrupt. “Prajapati, she was the oldest. She had Yasodhara’s intelligence. Maya, she had beauty. That’s what caught the Sakyan king’s eye. He saw her gathering herbs in the Lumbini Grove, and the love god’s arrows pierced them both at once. Poor Dandapani, it broke his heart.”

Sakhi forgot her ankle completely. “Dandapani was in love with Atimaya’s sister?”

“Oh, yes. But Yasodhara preferred her daughter marrying King Suddhodana, who was her nephew. Because of the bloodlines, you know. Because of the prophecy. I think Yasodhara saw that Maya would give birth to a great prince. They gave Atimaya to Dandapani. Those two never liked each other. Atimaya loved—”

Ghosha stopped suddenly.

“Loved who?” Sakhi asked, breathless.

“Ah, one who left the village before you were born.” Ghosha busied herself with bandages for a moment. “Poor Maya,” she sighed.

“Why ‘poor Maya’?”

“She died a week after giving birth to the little prince. Sad for Siddhartha, no matter that the court astrologers said the baby would rule the world or conquer death. Atimaya likes to say it’s all nonsense. She was always jealous of Maya and Prajapati, marrying a king. But who knows?”

There were footsteps down the hall. Atimaya poked her head in. “How was the gruel, my dear Sakhi?”

Ghosha and Sakhi gave each other guilty looks. “She’s had a few bites.”

“And now it’s cold. Well, if you expect something warm, you’ll have to wait until the next meal, child. You should have told her to eat while you bandaged, Ghosha. Too late now. Karna’s wife is looking for you. A child has whooping cough.”

“Hmmph.” Ghosha gathered up the little pots of salves and herbs, arranging them on a low table near the bed.

“Sakhi, would you like a visitor?” Atimaya said with false brightness.

“A visitor?”

“Your rescuer. The merchant Bhallika. He has been quite eager to see you.”

“Me?” Sakhi smiled wide for the first time since the fire. “He wants to see me?”

“Yes, hard to believe.” She gave a harsh laugh.

Sakhi flushed. Ghosha’s eyes narrowed.

“I’ll fetch him.” She whirled and stormed out before Sakhi could say yes, yes, she wanted a visitor, especially that one.

Sakhi curled up in a little ball after they left. She was comforted, knowing that Dandapani would take care of her. Her mind spun with all Ghosha had said about powers and prophecies and princes. What powers did her heart’s sister possess? What was Mala teaching her up on the mountain?

And Bhallika. Atimaya would have her roving eye on him. Dandapani would pretend he didn’t see, as always. Maybe he took lovers, too, but who in the village would catch his eye?

Bhallika had saved Sakhi’s life.

“You can’t have him, Atimaya. No one but me can.” Sakhi defied the empty room. In a distant room a shutter slammed, and she almost jumped out of her skin. “He is mine,” she whispered, and pulled the covers over her head.