Misunderstanding, he replied, “You don’t need one. You can rip off a piece of the roti and use it to scoop your food. See?” He demonstrated for her, tearing a strip of roti and picking up some of his own potato bhaji. Instead of eating it himself, he offered it to her.
She reached for it, then curled her fingers back into her palm. “Isn’t it rude?”
Hasan’s expression shifted, some of the easiness melting away. “Miss Sutherland, I understand that you were raised among Welkish nobility, and so all you know of being Virian is what they taught you. But let me make one thing clear: Our culture and traditions are notrude. Our way of life is no less valid or civil just because it hasn’t gotten the imperial stamp of approval.”
Poppy blinked, stunned by his lecture. She hadn’t meant to cause offense?—though now she could see how her question had appeared demeaning. She opened her mouth to explain, then shut it with a snap. Why would he care about what she’d gone through at Thornhaven? It would probably sound like excuses to him anyway. She snatched the food from his fingertips wordlessly and put it in her mouth.
She finished the rest of her dinner without speaking. Harithi and Hasan exchanged a long, loaded glance, but otherwise remained silent. In stark contrast to the tension, Rohini and the widows chatted merrily in the other tent.
When dinner was finished, one of the widows went into the kitchen and brought out finger bowls of lemon-scented water. The sun had gone down fully, the lawn now illuminated by the bonfire at the foot of the stage.
A group of people emerged from a coarse curtain set up behind the stage. Some walked around to collect the instruments; others, dressed in colorful costumes, assumed positions on the stage.
“Are we going to see a play?” Poppy asked, forgetting her pique. She hadn’t seen a play in ages.
“Not just any play,” Hasan said. “Remember how I said that when the Welks banned our gods, we found other ways to tell their stories? These performers are from the local village, Sanivali. They know dozens, if not a hundred, of the songs and dances that honor our gods. Normally, they perform at festivals or on auspicious dates, but I asked them to come here tonight for you.”
“Me?” she asked. “Why?”
“Because,” Hasan said, his mouth twitching into a small smile, “I’m a terrible teacher. You might not have had the same upbringing as me, but I want you to have a connection to our gods. A real one, not the lies that you were fed. Poppy, I realize that your only exposure to our culture and faith must have been negative. But it’s not too late to build positive associations. The only way to lose is to give up. And I’m not giving up.”
Her throat tightened. Though she knew he’d done it only because he needed her powers for their bargain, her chest warmed at the effort he must have gone to in order to organize this evening for her. She didn’t know how to show him her gratitude without also revealing her vulnerability, so instead she said, “Who said anything about giving up?”
Harithi cleared her throat. “Play’s starting.”
Sure enough, the drummers in front began to strike their instruments, setting a slow pulse.
“What song did you choose?” Harithi asked Hasan.
“‘Savana and Altan,’” he answered.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Gift of a Story
A woman dressed in red and brown, with a green dupatta over her hair, entered the stage, her anklets chiming with each step. Her announcement was accompanied by the lilting harmony of the sitar and wooden flutes. Her kameez stretched tight over her belly, which had been padded to give the appearance of pregnancy.
Hasan leaned toward Poppy to whisper, “That’s Rukmini. She’s the goddess of fertility, motherhood, and the bountiful harvest.”
A second woman entered the stage, dressed in a cropped aquamarine blouse and a skirt that flared when she spun. The music intensified, the pitch frenzied as the newcomer whirled around Rukmini.
“Neelam,” Hasan supplied. “Goddess of the sea. She is Rukmini’s sister. Their constant clashing created Viryana, with the lava from Rukmini’s womb becoming solid ground when it touches Neelam’s waves. In turn, the ocean throws itself on the land, eroding it. It is a constant battle between the two, but they love each other dearly.”
The actress playing Rukmini opened her mouth and began to sing in high, clear Virian. As she sang, Hasan shifted closer to Poppy and began to interpret in a low voice: “Sister, be still for me. I seek a mirror to the stars.”
Neelam fell still, tumbling gracefully to the stage. As she lay flat on her stomach, stagehands rushed forward, pulling a reflective black cloth studded with silver pieces over her.
Rukmini circled her sister, tracing her finger over the cloth. Suddenly, she gasped, holding her padded belly. “Daughter,” she cried, “the stars have seen an auspicious match for you! Your wedding will bring color to this land.”
Poppy shot Hasan a look. “Aren’t they already wearing color?”
“The color is for our benefit,” he explained readily. “We cannot name the gods and goddesses in our lyrics, because of the law. So we use visual cues to distinguish them. At the time this tale takes place, color had not yet come to Viryana.”
Onstage, the musicians beat their drums into a hard frenzy as Rukmini went into labor. She and Neelam slipped off the stage as the drums crescendoed, then went silent. Rukmini reemerged onstage, a child-sized bundle in her arms. “The stars have given me a daughter,” she announced. “Her laughter brings the rain; her wailing rouses a monsoon. She will water the earth with her storms.” With that, she disappeared back behind the curtain.
When the next song began, Rukmini still appeared pregnant, but with a little girl in tow. Anticipating Poppy’s next question, Hasan said, “Another visual cue. Rukmini is always portrayed pregnant.”
Onstage, mother and daughter bonded, the former braiding the latter’s hair. Poppy’s chest constricted at the sight. Demetria had never done Poppy’s hair herself, leaving that for Nanny to do?—she always said Poppy had too much hair, and besides, it was a maid’s task. Yet here was a goddess, doing something as trivial as grooming her daughter.
