“No,” I say. “We can’t have an adventure with only one stop. I just…” My voice is suddenly scratchy with emotion, and I have to pause and take a breath before I speak again. “I really love it here.” And I do. I’ve never been anywhere so serene in my entire life.
His eyes are bright. “I knew you would.” He smiles, but it’s not his usual grin—this smile spreads slowly, like spilled honey. His face looks younger and less guarded, like it did this morning when he stood outside my door in the rain. I smile back and he holds my gaze until my cheeks grow warm, and I let my eyes slide away.
He turns to Mani. “What do you think, pal? Do you want more adventure?” But Mani is already on his feet, bouncing lightly on his toes. We all laugh. Deven slings his pack over his shoulder and holds out both of his hands—one for me and one for Mani.
Deven says the walk will take over an hour, but I almost wish it would never end. We hike under huge trees that filter the light into dappled patterns on our arms and legs. The air smells so fresh that I feel like if I could just breathe deeply enough to pull it all in, it might wash away all the darkness. A songbird flits in the trees above us. With a start I realize that it looks like a miniature version of the great bird—its wings are the rich blue of lapis lazuli, edged in emerald green. I can’t pull my gaze away.
“Look,” I say, tugging on Deven’s hand, “it’s Garuda.” We stop and admire the bird for a few minutes before continuing on.
There’s a warmth radiating from my chest, and the thought crosses my mind that this must be what happiness feels like. And then, for some reason, my mind wanders to my mother. Or rather the empty space where my memories of her should be. When I was a little girl, I wondered about her incessantly—her eyes, her hair, the timbre of her voice. But I stopped thinking about her years ago, the way you avoid stepping in a puddle after a rainstorm. Because why make yourself miserable on purpose? And yet somehow the beauty of this day, its simple perfection, pushes my nonmemories of my mother forcefully to the surface. It’s as if my mind is trying to keep things in balance—like adding sour to sweet in a recipe. Gita’s stories of me as a baby include only my father. I’ve never heard her or Gopal mention my mother—though clearly I had one, even if she did agree to sell me.
“What do you think?” Deven’s voice pulls me from my thoughts and I follow his gaze. The trees have parted to reveal a small cove, closed in on all sides by mountains. Azure-blue cottages spill into the valley and spread out in every direction, the blue roofs rising and falling in waves. For a moment I’m too stunned to speak. It seems incongruous to see a village in such a secluded location. It’s beautiful in a whole different way than the waterfall is, but just as breathtaking.
Mani finds a voice before I do. “What is it?”
“The Widows’ Village,” Deven says. His voice is full of awe, like this place is sacred to him.
“Widows?” I say. Widows are considered unlucky in Sundari—superstitions abound that if a wife outlives her husband, she must be cursed, and socializing with her is dangerous. Even stepping in a widow’s shadow is said to bring seven years of bad luck.
Deven clears his throat. “Years ago the Raja heard reports about a settlement of poverty-stricken widows living in the far reaches of Sundari. He traveled there to see with his own eyes, and it was even worse than he thought. All of the women were destitute, dressed in rags and barely surviving off only a few meals a week. Their families had disowned them when their husbands died, and they had nowhere to go. It infuriated him that the women should be so poorly treated for something that wasn’t their fault, so he had his men search the kingdom high and low for somewhere they could be secluded and start a new life in a place of their own. When his advisers showed him this valley, he knew it was perfect. So he had this village built for them, and now they live and work together without any stigma.”
“That’s incredible,” I say. A wave of warmth washes over me. Gopal has always said that working for the Raja is an honor, but until this moment the Raja has never seemed like a real person, let alone a kind one. Maybe my work is noble after all. But then I remember that the Raja wants Deven dead, and the feeling drains away.
“Why are the houses blue?” Mani asks.
“Living under a blue roof is a symbol of dignity,” Deven explains. “But the Raja didn’t want to settle for just the roof. He wanted the entire house to be blue.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say. A solitary blue house might look garish, but all of them together are like a work of art. I can’t tear my gaze away.
“How did you find this place?” Mani asks.
A shadow passes over Deven’s face and it takes him a moment to answer. “My grandmother lives here,” he says finally.
“She does?” Mani claps his hands together. “Can we meet her?”