I.
Salt, mustard seed, and red hot chilies rained down from the sky.
A wrinkled old lady in a rumpled purple sari cupped them in her hands.
She breathed in their pungent aroma. They smelled of the sea, a stormy sun, and cloud-caressed wind.
Not sunkissed, or rain-drenched wind, but cloud-caressed.
This old lady was particular. You needed to distinguish between winds, put them in their place, or they’d get the best of you.
She knew. In her youth, she had commandeered wind.
It still answered to her.
Once, two decades ago, she requested them to create a cyclone for her to defeat the Sleepless Demon who fed on the night—
But that is another story.
Right now, she held the salty spices in her hand. She looked up at the sky and whispered, “Thank you.”
She turned, to walk to her niece’s room in the palace, wrapping the patterned pallu of the sari around her chest, holding the mixture tightly in her right hand.
A boy wearing an orange turban carrying a big cauldron of steamed rice, vegetables, and lentils passed her, nearly tripping on some rocks.
The old lady said gently, “Careful, Kishan. Watch where you’re going.”
The boy nodded. “Thanks Aunty” He walked faster; she wasn’t his real aunty—she was the king’s sister. But was known as the Fairy Aunty to everyone in the palace—except for the super-traditional, who had to refer to her royalty by the epithet Rani, or queen -- because she was a bit, well…fey. He couldn’t explain why, but she made him slightly nervous.
The Fairy Aunty watched him as he made his way to the dining-hall. He was a handsome young lad—almond-shaped eyes that looked out at the world in a sense of wonder, slender, broad-shouldered with muscular arms from all the work he constantly did in the kitchen and out on the grounds. In another life he would’ve been a prince…She called out, “You’re going to meet Kashi in the afternoon, after you have served lunch, don’t forget!”
“How can I forget?” he asked, “She’s my best friend. Same place?”
“Yes. The Reflecting Garden.”
The boy nodded.
“The young Kishan,” she whispered to herself, “He does not know what lies in store for him.”
The kitchen-boy walked through the green-painted wooden bead curtain hanging down from the lintel. The hard strands clinked against the heavy pot, beads colliding with steel in a series of quick metallic kisses.
The lady in rumpled purple thought to herself, “It is better that way.”
She arrived at the wing of the palace in which the Princess Devi lived.
Her niece.
She clutched the masala tightly in her hand.
Now, it was time to vanquish evil.
*
The Fairy Aunty stepped into the princess’ room, and caught her breath.
The beauty of it all.
A new shipment of saris must have arrived. They lay scattered about the room, the jewels embroidered upon them scattering rainbows of light.
Hundreds more lay neatly folded in shelves encircling a mirror of emerald-dipped silver.
There weren’t simply saris however; lehngas, gagra cholis—blossoming skirts topped with exquisitely detailed blouses--and a multitude of lace-and-silk veils gave great grace to the room as well.
Amidst the galaxies of material sat the princess, admiring one dress after another.
She hadn’t heard her aunty.
“Devi,” the Fairy Aunty finally said, regaining composure, “Who gave you all these new clothes?”
“Some minor kings paying tribute to Father,” the girl replied, hardly looking up, mesmerized by the colors silks and cottons in front of her. She suddenly picked a sari up which seemed crafted of pink and red petals. Indeed, the sari was fragrant with the divine aroma of Yemeni roses.
“What do you think, Aunty?” she asked, wrapping it around herself, staring at herself in the mirror.
Her aunty didn’t respond immediately. Devi looked beautiful, as beautiful as the many goddesses sculpted into the palace walls. Eyes a shade darker than night, skin tinted the color of strong tea. And soft waves of luxurious cinnamon-touched black hair to ornament it all. At sixteen, she was at the age when her father would start talking to her about marriage. Actually she was already past the age for a father to start planning a marriage, but he was too fond of her to let her go too young.
The Fairy Aunty shivered. I need to protect her…For there was one man, a so-called sage-- whose holiness was shot through with holes--who was determined to win the Princess’ Devi’s hand.
The Fairy Aunty was determined to never let that happen. And yet, the sage had as many powers as herself…
“Come here, Devi,” she said, quietly.
The princess looked at her briefly and shook her head. “In one minute, Aunty, I am busy as you can tell.”
But this was too important. The Fairy Aunty spoke firmly, with a touch of anxiety-induced anger.
“Now, Devi, now.”
The princess sighed, and dropped the sari of roses. Petals seemed to shake loose from the material, fall softly to the floor.
The girl stood in front of the old woman. Her hair was neatly braided, laced through with a necklace of jasmine flowers. A light layer of kohl underlined her eyes. The Fairy Aunty was not simply her aunty, but her substitute mother, as her own mother had died in childbirth.
She was the most powerful female in her family. So Devi listened.
The room was perfectly quiet. Only a cuckoo bird called outside, longingly, then left, in a flash of fluttering wings.
The Aunty held out her spice-filled fist. “Concentrate,” she said simply.
Devi didn’t know upon what to concentrate, but she focused on the tired wrinkled fist in front of her.
Slowly, closing her eyes, her aunty circled her fist three times in a clockwise motion, then three times counter-clockwise. As she did this she muttered quiet words to herself.
So quiet Devi almost couldn’t hear them. But she did:
Please remove all evil from my niece. Please remove all darkness from her life.
She is removing dhrishti, Devi thought, she is removing the evil eye…Why is she doing this?
Please, let that man forget her…
“What man?!” Devi exclaimed. “Aunty what are you saying? Why are you removing dhrishti from me?”
The Fairy Aunty opened her eyes. So her niece had heard her. She sighed. She forgot—she was hard of hearing now, and spoke louder than she intended.
“I will tell you later,” she said, with as much authority as she could muster. For even though she was older than Devi, she held lower rank than the princess…
“Tell me now Aunty!” the princess commanded, fire alighting in her coal-colored eyes.
Devi was even more captivating in anger, thought the old lady.
But she summoned strength within herself. She walked to a window, and threw the mixture outside onto the ground. It seemed to sizzle as it dissolved into the dirt. Its job was done; it had burned through and destroyed the darkness surrounding the princess.
For the moment.
“Devi, later. Now, I want you to change out of all your fine clothes. Wear the old clothes I gave you. The ones smeared with ashes.”
“Am I going to see Kishan?” asked the princess joyfully, seemingly forgetting her previous anger.
The Fairy Aunty nodded. “Quickly. He only has half-an-hour before his evening duties begin.”
Devi nodded, and ran to a small cupboard by her mirror. She opened a drawer bearing a crystal handle, and pulled out a gray tunic smeared with cooking oil and ash from a fire.
She put it on quickly, quickly stripping away her lehnga of grass-shaded raw silk, beaming at her aunty. “Let’s go!” she exclaimed.
The Fairy Aunty’s heart warmed. Kishan and Devi belong together, she thought…
But how does a kitchen boy marry a princess?
The princess’ green-and-gold earrings glittered in a flash of sunlight.
“Your jewelry!” exclaimed the old lady. “Take it off.”
“I forgot,” the girl said, quickly removing the earrings and slim gold chain which fastened them to her hair.
She tucked them in her drawer.
And turned towards her aunty, smiling. “Let’s go!” she said.
The Aunty nodded. “Remember,” she said, “He must not know you are the princess.”
“Because he’ll feel bad, right, at all my nice clothes, when he’s dressed in old rags?”
That was not the complete reason, but the Aunty nodded. “Yes. And what is your name?”
“Kashi,” the Princess Devi responded.
“Yes, Kashi of the king’s kitchen. Let’s go.”
As they left the princess’ room, the Aunty thought, I will remove dhrishti from her every day. It’s the only way I can hope to keep that evil man from winning her hand.
II.
“Kishan!” Kashi called, upon spotting the kitchen boy’s orange turban in the distance.
Kishan turned around, quickly stuffing something into his pocket.
“Kashi, you came!” He ran down a small slope, skipped over a narrow stream full of silvery fish, and stopped in front of his fellow kitchen employee. Although she had the honor of working in the kitchen of the king himself; he worked in the kitchen for much lower courtiers, and visiting nobles.
“Of course I came silly!” exclaimed Kashi. “Every Monday and Wednesday afternoon after lunch, when the sun is still high in the sky.”
“I know,” said Kishan, “You keep your word.” He looked into her eyes, but quickly looked down. She was the only he knew who kept her word. Suddenly, he felt very shy.
“Are your stepsisters still bullying you?” asked Kashi, putting her hand on his shoulder. She’d heard terrible stories about these girls. One was nastier than the next.
Kishan hung his head. “Always. They don’t want to do any of the work in the kitchen. They lay it all on me.”
“Then why do you do it?” asked Kashi, “Can’t you tell your stepmother to get them to quit it? Or your father?”
Kishan shook his head. His stepmother hated him; she’d only married his father because his real mother had died, his father needed a wife, and he had saved a little bit of money as a farmer on fertile land outside the palace walls. But now, the hard-working man was sick. He had been sick for a while, so Kishan and his stepsisters found jobs in the palace.
“My stepmother doesn’t care about me,” he replied, “and my father’s sick. I don’t want to bother him. To tell you the truth, my stepmother wants her daughters to meet a nobleman or minister, or even a prince in this court. That’s all she cares about.”
Kashi burst out laughing. “A nobleman?? A prince?? Well lots of nobles are fools so maybe your stepsisters can hook someone.”
The hazy, golden, afternoon sun shone all around Kashi. Her dark hair seemed aflame, and even her dirty tunic seemed to glow. The oil stain on it looked like a duck. Kishan smiled. It was so goofy. “How was work today?”
Kashi bit her lip, and quickly thought. “Let’s not talk about work. We have twenty minutes in this garden. Let’s run!”
She took off, ran up the slope, and stopped. All around her were small ponds of water, each shaded by a small wood. They sparkled in the sunlight like the jewels on her saris. Her (secret) father, the king, wanted his subjects to have a beautiful garden in which to relax. To think. To feel.
And thus, the Reflecting Garden.
“Look!” Kashi exclaimed, pointing ahead. “A deer and her fawn! Let’s go have a look.”
Kishan, still at the bottom of the hill, ran up to meet her. Her energy took his breath away, yet also energized him in a way he couldn’t explain.
He stopped at the top, panting. She placed her finger on her lips, motioning him to be quiet.
She led him softly to a grove of eucalyptus, surrounding a wizened old banyan. Its roots reached from the top of its limbs down towards the ground, forming new thick trunks that seemed to have known the earth in all its intimacy, forever.
Inside the grove sat a deer, embracing a fawn within its legs, nuzzling it gently with her chin.
Kashi stepped as silently as a breeze into the grove, and stroked the deer gently as it licked her newborn’s face.
Kishan held his breath. He didn’t dare violate the sanctity of the scene in front of him.
Kashi stepped silently back from the trees. She motioned him over to the stream.
They sat down at the edge, dipping their feet into the sweet contemplative waters.
“I can’t believe the deer let you touch her like that!” Kishan exclaimed.
Kashi shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve known her since she was a fawn.”
“So you’ve been working in the king’s kitchen your whole life?” asked Kishan.
Kashi thought for a second, and then said, “You could say that.”
“So you don’t have any parents at all?”
Kashi shook her head, not saying a word for fear she’d blurt out the truth. She hated lying to her friend.
For he was her one true friend. He had a freshness about him that she didn’t feel from her royal playmates. They’d get bored with a deer; all palaces had dozens of deer in gardens and woods; what was the big deal?
“Well, that’s something we have almost in common. At least I have a father who loves me.” Kishan put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. Then, after a second, slid it off.
It was perfectly silent for a few minutes; a small turtle suddenly appeared from what looked like a box of rock. It moved, slowly, thoughtfully, towards the stream.
A fat purple frog appeared next, from a hole in the ground. Kashi laughed. “He looks like the Minister for Grains. Perfect for your stepsisters! Maybe they can kiss it.”
Kishan grinned. He was about to respond when a loud clanging sound reverberated through the garden. His stomach fell. “I have to go. We’re being called back to start cooking for the evening meal.”
Kashi sighed. Then brightened. “Well it’s only Monday, so I’ll see you in two days!”
Kishan reached into a small bag tied with a string around his waist. He was about to take something out—
But suddenly, stopped. His stomach had fallen. He was scared. And shy.
And confused.
He stood up. “Yes. Only two days.”
Kashi stood up. “I’ll race you down!”
Both friends raced down the hill, the wind loosening Kashi’s hair from her braid.
Their laughter competed with the cawing of the crows and the clattering chatter of mint-tinted parrots.
“I won!” exclaimed Kishan. “A girl still can’t beat me.”
“You did not win!” Kashi picked up a pinecone and threw it at him. “My hair weighed me down, that’s all.”
“Well my turban weighed me down and I still won!” Kishan laughed and ran off.
Kashi made a face, and started braiding her hair as she walked slowly back to the palace.
She didn’t know it, but her heart was very happy.
Her aunty was waiting for her at the bottom of the hill. She smiled when she Kashi.
“You had a good time!”
Kashi—Devi-- nodded. “Yes aunty, Kishan is great!”
“Devi,” the aunty said, emphasizing the girl’s real name, “there is an evening of music tonight. Your father wants you there. Change into a nice sari. Your cousins are coming.”
Devi sighed. “I’d rather be with the deer.”
Aunty advised niece as they approached the main door to the palace. The guards bowed to let them through.
Suddenly, they heard a new voice behind them.
The Fairy Aunty turned.
A young messenger was speaking to the Minister of the Household. “I have a message for the king.” He bowed and handed a waxed, sealed, roll of sycamore bark.
“From whom?” asked the Minister, looking at him curiously over his thick-as-an-elephant-trunk moustache.
“The King’s Royal Sage,” answered the messenger.
The Fairy Aunty froze.
“Quickly, Devi,” she whispered, “Go inside.”
When the princess protested—she wanted to first walk along the banks of the palace pool—the aunty commanded, with steel in her voice, “Go inside. Now.”
Indeed, as the princess stepped through the palace’s teak doors, a brisk wind seemed to push her through.