Pranks were not the only games Parshuram liked to play. He had Nala talk to people. He would sometimes send her to the blacksmith to ask whether the steel imports that year were leaner than last year, or to the port to discover the tariff on mountain fish. Or to the temple to discover which God had received the highest donations that quarter. She was asked to head to the lakes when the thaw came and the houseboats resumed commerce, to chat up tourists and boatmen alike.

But she was growing tired of all this. The Art of the Sun began to look extremely attractive from where she stood now, but what could she do? Disobey Parshuram and break her Vachan? Unthinkable. At least all this talking to people allowed her to make a few friends, from the leathery skinned boatman to the old corn-seller. She gossiped often with the lady who sold lotus roots at one of the floating gardens on the lake. The woman’s children liked to play with Nala as well, and confided their secrets to her. She began to notice how she was apparently considered trustworthy because she was maimed, invisible and non-existent. She was never considered an intrusion when she cleaned the tables where traders gathered to gossip over hookah or warm kasmira tea. Even in the local whorehouse, no client batted an eyelid in her direction when she entered through the doors with wares to sell, not unless they were curious about the white stripes on her face.

It was as if she had turned invisible for the world.

VI

‘Stop crying.’

It was only then that Nala realized her eyes were swimming. She wiped them, ashamed. Sniffing, she turned to make the evening tea.

‘What is it, Nala? Onions?’

Nala hunched over the pot and did not answer. She heard Parshuram grunt behind her. Swallowing, she slowly turned. ‘Master, today is my Matre’s Day of Morning, when the shaman unearthed her from the soil after our ritual; the day we Valkas celebrate as our Name-day. I cannot stop thinking about them, Master. Their burnt bodies must have been gorged upon by vultures.’ She sniffed again. ‘And here I am, learning how to cook, how to speak in languages no one gives a shit about, talking to people with whom I want to have nothing to do; pathetic vermin who complain about trivialities of life when they have no inkling what true sorrow feels like!’

‘Are you done?’ Parshuram wrestled the pot out of her hand. ‘Would you like some tea?’

Suddenly, the dam within her broke, and her thoughts flooded her tongue. ‘No! I have taken a Vachan to never disobey you, for I know I will burn if I do,’ Nala sobbed. ‘But sometimes I feel like breaking it just to be released from the countless hours of learning things that will get me nowhere close to achieving vengeance!’ Nala was panting, her chest heaving with effort. She was afraid to even look up into her Master’s eyes.