7CAVAS
When Govind finally lets me go, the sun has sunk into the hills beyond Javeribad. Sunheri is still full but ashy against the sky, stark and lonely without Neel.
“Follow Sunheri,” Papa told me when I was a young boy. “Follow Sunheri and you will never get lost.”
Built on Barkha Hill, Ambar Fort can be a maze of buildings to anyone who doesn’t know it well. After a princess got lost wandering many years ago, her mother had palace workers discreetly engrave Sunheri’s moon in its various phases across the wall bordering the complex. The trail leads to the Moon Door, the palace’s rear gate, where two full moons are engraved right next to each other, atop a towering cusped arch. The Moon Door directly faces a window into Rani Mahal’s kitchen—which, some say, was one of the princess’s favorite haunts.
I follow the engraved Sunheri now, but in waxing order, around the perimeter of the wall, out of the Moon Door, and into the Walled City—a fortified area that surrounds the palace. Built on a steep incline, with stairs connecting the various havelis and ministry offices, the Walled City is where the higher-ranking royal servants like Govind live, along with the king’s ministers, courtiers, and Sky Warriors.
Palace servants hurry up the steps past me, carrying various items—baskets of laundered clothes, pots of cosmetics, bushels of safflower and millet—sweat pouring down their foreheads and darkening the armpits of their clothes. No one takes notice of me. The workers in the Walled City are far too busy, constantly at the royal family’s beck and call.
The stairs eventually taper to a smooth road, which ends in a giant outer gate leading to the city of Ambarvadi, a couple of miles away. The guards at the outer gate check everyone who comes into the Walled City by verifying the badges on their saris or the pins on their turbans. They also keep an equally careful eye on who goes out, nodding at me curtly as I walk out the gates. I avoid the temptation to glance up at the watchtower, where a Sky Warrior always stands guard, atashban in hand. Though this doesn’t happen often, there have been a few cases where a bystander stood gaping at the watchtower for too long and was shot at—as a warning. Don’t act suspicious, I remind myself. Don’t draw their attention in any way.
The knot above my stomach does not loosen until I’m well away from the gate. Instead of heading down the darkened path that leads to the city of Ambarvadi, I turn left, making my way down another smaller path, paved by footprints instead of the city’s road builders.
Here, there are no lightorbs, nor is there any of the magic that envelops the palace like a shroud. The air grows thick, smells strongly of tar. Sunheri glows faintly over the gravel and dust, illuminating the path to a cluster of small houses and buildings that form the west end of the tenements.
During the day, smoke from the mines lingers perpetually over the area in a brown haze. It’s only during the nights, when the mines shut down, that the homes—and the people living in them—grow visible again. Lanterns hang from poles along the path, moths dancing around the yellow flames. A man plucks an ektara’s single string outside a dilapidated haveli, his rich baritone rising in the air without blending into the evening din. Soon enough, a group of enthralled children are drawn in to listen, followed by some weary adults. As tempted as I am to linger, I force myself to keep moving. Past mud-brick buildings patched up with sheets of wood and hammered metal. Past homes where old tent canvases serve as roofs against the rain and the sun. Thin flower garlands made of jasmine and marigold bracket the tops of many doors, some of them so well made that for a moment I forget they’re nothing more than temple discards salvaged from the waste pits.
The smell of frying kachoris rises, scenting the air with sugar and grease. After a long day with only khichdi and honeyweed stew for sustenance, my mouth automatically begins to water. As if sensing my approach, a head pokes out from a kitchen window, white hair turning silver in the moonlight. A wrinkled face breaks into a wide, familiar grin. “Come here, boy! Have a kachori!”
“Ruhani Kaki!” I feel the day’s invisible load roll off my shoulders and don’t even mind the slight burn of the piping hot pastry Ruhani Kaki pops into my mouth. Self-appointed aunt—or kaki—to everyone in the tenements, Ruhani is often said to be over a hundred years old. People say that when she first arrived here, she looked exactly the way I see her now.
“Here.” She hands me two large kachoris wrapped in a banana leaf. “Take these to your father.”
“But, Kaki—”
“I’ve put some herbs into these.” Unlike many tenement dwellers whose eyes have grown milky with age, her pale-brown eyes are unclouded and far too sharp. “They will help with the night sweats.”
I silently accept the package. Feeding Papa has become more and more difficult these days; he throws up most of the food I cook for him. Perhaps something more delicious might stir his appetite.
“Tenement Fever is a curse,” Ruhani Kaki says, sensing my thoughts. “The air itself is riddled with disease. But he’s a strong man, and you’re a good son. You take care of him.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “I try.”
There are times I wonder if she knows how Papa has survived for so long. If anyone has guessed what I’m doing to keep him alive.
