“Look, Lata,” she said softly. “The mothers love their daughter after all.”
BHUMIKA
The yaksa let her bow at their feet. They watched her hands shake, and the mask-keepers weep. Padma stared up at them, eyes wide, her hands fisted into Bhumika’s sleeves—and that, only that, made her rise to her feet. “Khalida,” she said, voice hoarse. Strange in her own throat. “Take Padma.Khalida.”
Khalida finally broke free from the trance that had taken her. Fumbled, and then carefully took Padma into her arms. And Bhumika stood tall, and bowed—the deep, standing bow she had once seen her temple elders use for effigies of the yaksa. She straightened and said, “Your High Elder welcomes you, yaksa.” A susurration ran through the crowd of worshippers; they swayed, almost, with her words. She understood it. She could feel the enormity of this moment, too. As if a myth had taken her up, and she could only allow it to carry her. “Your High Elder welcomes you to Ahiranya. To your land and your people.” She bowed again, and said, “I find myself—lost. Without words. Please.” She raised her head again. “Guide me.”
“Take us through the mahal,” said Sendhil.
“Then take us to the Hirana,” Chandni said, more gently. “We desire to see everything. To know our temple, our people. Our home.”
“Yaksa,” Bhumika said, bowing her head again, for lack of any idea what to do. “Please. Follow me.”
The worshippers surged forward. But Nandi, the smallest of them, turned. “No farther,” he said sweetly. And the earth seized and roiled, and with a cry the worshippers stumbled back.
“Learn respect,” he said. And then, with a child’s skipping footsteps, he followed.
One foot in front of the other. Face calm. That was all she could do for herself. No one else had followed. The yaksa only seemed to want her. They circled her like carrion birds, surrounding her, urging her forward.
A rustle of noise, and in the blink of an eye, the yaksa with Sanjana’s face was walking by her side.
“Yaksa,” Bhumika said again. What else could she say? “I…”
“Call me Sanjana if it’s easier,” the yaksa said, smiling sweetly. “And call her Chandni, and call him Sendhil. And Nandi of course. You have not forgotten him, have you?”
“No,” said Bhumika. “I have not.”
Tinkling laughter.
“None of us mind those names.”
“I should address you with respect, yaksa,” Bhumika said, eyes lowered. “And my… you are not my temple sister.”
“No,” Sanjana-who-was-not-Sanjana said merrily, as if the thought of it amused her. “This is just flesh, temple daughter. Just that.” She tapped her own jaw lightly. “Peel it away and there’s still power beneath it.”
Sanjana leaned into her.
“You carve masks of wood. The wood of our bones,” she breathed. “You wear us as your crowns. It seemed fitting that we do the same.”
“I am sorry,” Bhumika said, grappling for solid ground. “Sorry, if my actions have caused offense. If the masks—”
“Ah, no. No.” The yaksa shook her head. “No offense between us, daughter. None at all.” And then she was darting away again. Behind her, the marble of the corridor had cracked—splitting open for the flowers that followed her, beautiful violet blooms with deep yellow hearts.
It was like a dream. A great and terrible dream.
Bhumika turned to Ashok, who watched her still.
“And what should I call you?” Bhumika said softly.
Ashok returned her look.
“My name,” he said. “What else?”
He certainly looked human. His face was the same. His body. The expression he wore as he looked at her was all Ashok—tinged with judgment, his mouth slightly curled, his eyebrows low. But he held himself with a stiffness that made her own skin itch with unease.
“I am not a yaksa,” he said. “I am… just me, Bhumika. Returned.”
“No temple child truly dies,” said the yaksa with Sendhil’s face; with his earthen hands and budding things rising through his throat. “We carry you with us. We hold you inside us, as you hold us within you in turn.
