A mynah whistles a song from a nearby tree, bringing to mind a lullaby I once heard my mother sing: a song about a lost bird who found branches far into the sky. There are no branches, let alone clouds, in the sky today—even though it’s the fourth day of Tears, which is supposedly the wettest of the twelve months of the year. Beyond the market and the sloping incline littered with houses towers Barkha Hill. Rani Mahal glitters on top, an iridescent pink-and-gold gem, fortified by two thick stone boundaries. More than the palace’s beauty, though, I can sense its magic, even from here, hundreds of feet away—a slight tingling under my skin, a feeling not unlike being watched.
Juhi doesn’t know you’re here, I tell myself firmly. Neither do Amira or Kali. It will still be some time before they wake, perhaps even more before they discover your absence.
Thoughts of Kali bring forth a twinge of guilt. I promised her I’d never come here. Two months ago, or perhaps in less desperate circumstances, I might have even kept that promise.
“Not anymore,” I say under my breath, even though the words feel like pebbles on my tongue. Today, I turn sixteen, the official age of adulthood in Ambar, and, short of shackling me again, there is nothing they could have done to stop me from leaving.
A few feet away from the entrance to the flesh market, I pause, watching a woman drag a small boy toward a guard in a white turban. The stone in my throat loosens only when the guard bars her entry with his lathi—a tall bamboo staff that looks exactly like the ones the thanedars use.
“No, madam,” he says, his eyes on the boy. “Your son isn’t willing. And you cannot go in with him.”
When she argues, he slams the lathi onto the ground, shooting purple sparks into the air. “There are no compromises here, madam! This is Ambarvadi, not Havanpur. As keeper of the flesh market, I am bound to its rules. The very first rule is: Humans selling themselves must be of age or older. Your son is not sixteen years old. He is also unwilling, which contradicts the second rule: Humans selling themselves must do so of their own volition.”
The smell of pearl millet, spices, and ghee rises from the bundle in my hands, a stack of the bajra roti I’d stolen from the pantry last night. Under the food, there’s a brief, reassuring click. The familiar grooves of the seaglass daggers, their engraved hilts growing warm under my touch.
Around me, people are slowly filtering in: stallkeepers, assistants, a few early shoppers grumbling about the rise in safflower prices. A farmer steps out from the entrance to the flesh market, holding a camel by a heavily tasseled bridle. A boy of perhaps eighteen years trails behind him, his eyes lowered to the ground, familiar blue bands of light glowing on his wrists and ankles.
Shackling. At least I’ve enough practice with that.
I trudge toward the entrance, but my jootis still cover the distance more rapidly than I expect. Steps away from the banner and the colorful flags surrounding the makeshift entrance, I allow the part of the sari covering my face to fall down. The guard at the entrance watches me carefully. My tongue feels gritty, as if coated with sand. In the background, a shout rises, and for a second, I think I’ve heard my name.
“Gulab! Chameli! Rajnigandha!” a woman cries out. “Fresh flowers for sale!”
I don’t look back.
The first thing I see as I step across the threshold of the flesh market is a giant elephant in chains. What’s most striking about it is not that it’s an elephant—I’ve seen a few of those already in Ambar—but the length of its tusks, which are nearly twice as long as a normal elephant’s, and that it’s covered entirely, from head to hooves, in thick brown fur. It also looks exhausted: bent at the knees, head resting on the ground, barely an eye opening when a small man prods it with a whip.
“Up! Up, filthy beast!”
Another sharp prod and the elephant cries out—a horrible rumbling sound that vibrates through me, even though the man seems to feel nothing. I try to whisper to it the way I do to Agni and other animals, but its pain is so intense that the first mental touch scalds, makes me leap back as if I’ve been burned.
Furious, I can’t help but march up to the man and tell him to stop. “Can’t you see the elephant is in agony?”
“This is no elephant, stupid girl,” the man says, spraying me with spittle. “This is a mammoth from Prithvi. Nearly gored my whisperer to death when we first let it out of its cage. Bloody beast cost me a fortune! And that was without the cost to bring it here!”
“It needs to be cold,” I point out angrily. “Don’t you have ice or something?”
“Ice! Ice, she tells me!” The man roars with laughter. Our argument must have captured the attention of a few other traders in the flesh market, because they, too, join in with laughs of their own.
“You’d need a block the size of Barkha Hill to cool that beast down,” someone else shouts.
“Go home to your mother, girl! This place is not for you!”
The mammoth’s eyelid flickers, its long lashes coated with red dust. Cold, I think. I need it to be cold. Spying a bucket of water nearby, I douse the edge of my sari’s pallu into it, soaking the cloth. When the man’s back is turned, I sneak closer to the mammoth, pressing the wet cloth to its furry face, right under its eyes. The water may not be much, but it’s the best I have right now.
Another
