“Uh,” the amnesiac said. “In these first few weeks of my life, probably not.”
Hemu sat up straighter, visibly pleased. The amnesiac knew the expression all too intimately—the pride at knowing something the person to whom you were speaking did not. It was the closest simulacrum to personal memory either of them could experience. “Very important. He’s chief of the Navagraha and presiding deity of Sunday. Surya rides a chariot drawn by a horse with seven heads, and has four arms in which he holds—” Hemu paused to collect himself, realizing he was getting carried away. “He’s one of the oldest gods. From the Rigveda, the oldest book. The oldest memories, in a way—not that any of us were there, but we all know the stories. We all know them in almost the same words. It makes me happy to think about them. To realize I still remember them, too.” He put up a finger, to indicate something important was about to follow. “The point, though—Surya is the god of the sun. And his consort was made from a shadow.”
Now that seemed like something that might go somewhere. The amnesiac wished they’d given him a notepad, or even just a piece of paper. “Really?” he asked.
Hemu nodded. “In the Rigveda, Surya marries Sanjna, goddess of clouds, mother of the twin Asvins. Those—the Asvins—symbolize the shining of sunrise and sunset. Each one crosses the sky once a day in their chariot, bringing either the light or dark. They—” He paused again, scratching at one of the sensors. “Sorry,” he said. “The twins are also beside the point. Sometimes I just . . . It makes me happy to realize how many details about something I still remember, if that makes sense.”
The amnesiac shook his head. “I understand,” he said. “Honestly, I’m impressed even people with shadows can remember this much. All of you know these stories?”
“It seems to me no different than knowing all the names and statistics of current and past heroes from your favorite American football team, and the moments of their careers,” Hemu shrugged.
He had a point. “But you were saying,” the amnesiac said, remembering their audience on the other side of the observation panel. He was supposed to keep them on track.
“Yes, yes,” Hemu continued, grinning again. “So Surya marries Sanjna with her father’s blessing. But when Sanjna comes to Surya’s house, because he’s the god of the sun, she realizes that she can’t bear the brilliant radiance of his light. She’s unable to even be in the same room as him, let alone look at him. Sad, no?”
The amnesiac nodded.
“This is the interesting part. To escape the blinding light, Sanjna takes her own shadow and makes it into Chhaya, an identical copy of herself, then transforms into a mare so Surya won’t recognize her. She flees to the forest, leaving Chhaya in her place to take care of the house and manage her domestic duties. Sometimes Chhaya is referred to in the Rigveda as Savarna, ‘same kind’—identical to Sanjna because she was made from her shadow, but mortal.”
The amnesiac realized he’d been leaning so far forward in his armchair that the back two legs had begun to hover a hair off the ground. Stories, yes—but he felt like Hemu was trying to get at something. The pieces seemed like they belonged to the same puzzle, even if they went at the other end of the finished picture. “What happened?” he asked.
Hemu shrugged nonchalantly. “Surya eventually figures out Chhaya is not Sanjna, and goes to the forest and finds his wife, hiding in mare form. Sanjna’s father then manages to reduce Surya’s brightness by one eighth, enough that Sanjna can bear the light, and she comes home.”
The tone of Hemu’s voice as he said the last sentence sounded as though he’d reached the end of the story. The amnesiac glanced at the tinted viewing window, confused. “But what about Chhaya?” he finally asked.
“Some versions say she leaves, but most say she stays, as another wife. The gods sometimes have multiple wives.”
The amnesiac blinked. “That’s it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, that’s the whole thing? There’s nothing more?”
“You are unhappy,” Hemu said uncertainly.
“No,” he said. “No, I—it’s just that I thought maybe there was something else. Something that might help us. I didn’t know it was just going to be a story.”
“I think if there was something that was going to help us, we’d already have thought of it.” Hemu snorted bitterly and looked down. “I just like the ending, that’s all. I just thought, wasn’t it nice, that Sanjna and her shadow were able to be reunited, and then the shadow stayed?” He trailed off. “That would be nice.”