Aru tilted her head, a question flying out of her before she could stop herself. “Why does your voice sound different?”
From inside the elephant, the bird had sounded like it could convince a mountain to turn into a volcano. Now it sounded like her math teacher that one time he had tried to perform a cappella but had stepped on a Lego piece. For the rest of the day he’d spoken in an anxious, sulky voice.
The pigeon puffed out its chest. “Is there something wrong with how I sound, human girl?”
“No, but—”
“Do I not look like a bird capable of great devastation?”
“I mean—”
“Because I shall have you know that whole cities revile me. They say my name like a curse.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“It’s a powerful thing,” sniffed the bird. “And between good and power, I will always choose the latter.”
“Is that why you’re a pigeon?”
Could a bird narrow its eyes? If not, this one had certainly mastered the illusion.
“The lamp was lit. The Sleeper will start to awaken. It is my sacred duty to guide the Pandava brother who lit it.”
“Pandava?”Aru repeated.
She knew that name. It was the last name of the five brothers in the Mahabharata poem. Her mother had said that each of them held great powers and could wield fantastic weapons because they were the sons of gods.Heroes.But what did that have to do with the lamp? Had she hit her head without noticing? She felt around her scalp for a bump.
“Yes. Pandava,” sneered the pigeon. It puffed out its chest. “Only one of the five Pandava brothers could light the lamp. Do you know where he went, human girl?”
Aru lifted her chin. “Ilit the lamp.”
The bird stared. And then stared some more.
“Well, then, we might as well let the world end.”
In-ep-tee-tood
Aru had read somewhere that if you stare at a chimpanzee, it will stare back, smile…and then attack you.
She hadn’t read anything about what kind of consequences might follow from staring at a pigeon.
But she did know that gazes were powerful things. Her mom used to tell her stories of Gandhari, a queen who chose to go through life blindfolded out of empathy for her blind husband. Onlyoncedid she take off the blindfold, to look at her eldest son. Her stare was so powerful it could have made him invincible—if he’d been naked. But no, he was too embarrassed to go without his underwear. He was still superstrong, just not as strong as he could’ve been. (Aru sympathized with him. That must have been a horribly awkward moment.)
And so Aru maintained eye contact with the pigeon…but took one step back.
Finally, the bird relented. It hung its head. Its wings drooped.
“The last dormant Pandavas were so brilliant!” it said, shaking its head. “The last Arjuna was a senator. The last Yudhistira was a famous judge. The last Bhima was an Olympic athlete, and Nakula and Sahadeva were famous male models who wrote fabulous best-selling self-help books and started the world’s first hot-yoga studios! And now look at what has become of the line: a girl child, of all things.”
Aru didn’t think this was particularly fair. Even famous people had been children at some point. Judges weren’t born wearing wigs and carrying gavels.
And that led to another question: What was the bird going on about? All of those names—Arjuna, Yudhistira, Bhima, Nakula, and Sahadeva—were the names of the five most famous Pandava brothers. There was one more—Karna—the secret Pandava. In the stories, the other Pandavas didn’t even know he was their brother until the war had begun.
And why did the bird saydormant? Didn’t that mean sleeping?
The pigeon flopped onto its back and draped one wing dramatically over its beak. “So this is to be my fate,” it moaned. “I used to begoingplaces. Top of my class, you know.” It sniffed.
“Um…sorry?”
