When I was a little girl, I once told Gopal that of all the Raksaka, the bird was my favorite. He narrowed his eyes at me. “Garuda is no songbird, rajakumari. The legends say she is big enough to fly away with an elephant clutched in her claws like it weighs no more than a mouse.” He meant to scare me, but I only felt encouraged. I knew Garuda was only a myth. Still, if she could lift an elephant, maybe there was a force strong enough to carry me away from Gopal someday.
But now Deven is studying me with the same calculating kind of look Gopal gave me all those years ago, and I’m not sure why. He glances at his arm and then back up at my face. He doesn’t speak for a few moments and finally says, “Thank you. I’m glad you like it.” But then he tugs on his sleeve so that the bird is covered again.
We turn the corner and Deven follows me down the narrow alley that leads to my flat. I glance back at him and laugh a little. He looks like he’s wearing a Mani hat. But then I remember that Gita might be home—or worse, Gopal—and the laughter dies on my lips.
My door is a dull red that always reminds me of dried blood. We stop and I give two short knocks. Nothing. But it’s too soon for relief. I dig the key out of my bag and turn my back to the door. “Thank you for your help,” I tell Deven. “I can take him from here.” I reach out my hands as if to lift Mani from his shoulders, when it’s clear to both of us that I’m not tall enough or strong enough to do that. But I’m desperate for him to leave.
Deven shakes his head. “Let me help you get him inside.”
“No, really. I’ll be fine. Please just—”
“Marinda.” It’s the first time he’s said my name, and it feels intimate hearing it from the mouth of a stranger. “He’ll wake if I set him down here. Let me lay him inside and I promise to leave right away.”
I relent. “Fine.” My hands shake as I slide the key into the lock, and my heart feels like it could break free from my chest. Gita could be inside. She didn’t answer my knock, but it’s no guarantee. I hold my breath as I push open the door. The flat is empty and relief stings my eyes, burns in my throat. Deven ducks through the doorway.
“You can lay him down there,” I say, motioning to my bed. Smudge is curled on Mani’s pillow and is unlikely to relinquish her position without protest. Deven gingerly lowers Mani to the bed and pulls a blanket over him. Then he stands up and his eyes sweep over the room. It must seem so drab to him. So plain. His expression is unreadable.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Sure.” He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. His eyelashes are thick and long, and his nose—right where his fingers are resting—is a little crooked, like he might have broken it as a child. He opens his eyes and sighs. “Will you be at the bookshop tomorrow?”
I don’t answer right away. I just want him to leave before Gita gets here. The possibility of her walking in is thrumming loudly at the back of my mind. Deven raises his eyebrows and I manage a nod. “Yes, I think so.”
“I’ll bring some fruit for Mani. It should make him stronger.” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he spins on his heel and strides away. I watch him until he turns out of the alley and disappears. I close the door and rest my forehead against the cool wood. Slowly, all the pent-up tension seeps out of me until I no longer have the strength to stand. I sink to my knees and escape the only way I’ve ever been able to—by closing my eyes and letting sleep claim me for her own.
I wake to noise and have to blink several times to adjust my eyes. I fell asleep slumped against the door, and now my back aches and my neck won’t move properly. Someone is pounding outside; it’s an insistent smacking sound—all palm and no knuckle. I peel myself from the floor and open the door.
“Finally,” Iyla says with a groan. She shoves a large paper bag into my arms and makes a show of looking me over. “You look terrible.”
“Nice to see you too,” I say. I peek into the bag, and the smell of spices makes my stomach grumble. The bag is filled with containers of thick sauces in deep red and nutty brown, loaves of flatbread, lidded cups filled with rice.
“You forgot to eat again?” Iyla flips her long hair over one shoulder and shakes her head. She is clearly dressed for a job. Her dress is snug but not indecent—just fitted enough to highlight where the contours are. Gold and silver bracelets jangle from her wrists, her lips and cheeks are painted crimson, and she smells like an exotic flower.
“I didn’t forget,” I say, pulling containers from the bag and spreading them out on the table. “I just hadn’t gotten to it yet.”
Smudge jumps from the bed and circles Iyla’s ankles, mewing for her share of food. Iyla shoos her away. “Gita said you would forget. She thinks you can’t even be trusted enough to feed yourself.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m surprised that this small criticism stings a little. “Mani doesn’t have much of an appetite and I’ve been a little preoccupied.” I’m annoyed with myself that I’m justifying my eating habits to Iyla, so I change the subject. “Are you working?” I open the cupboard and pull out two plates.
She laughs. “We’re both working.”