Then, a rather vulgar proposition offered a glimmer of hope in the dark. Mansinh, the prince of Bhawadh and Vellasami’s disciple, promised to donate any amount it would take to deploy thousands of labourers to carve a path and create an artificial waterfall over the shiv-ling, thereby returning the holy ground to its original state. In return, he would get the devadasi he desired the most – Mariamma. A livid Vellasami banished the prince from his ashram, lamenting the fact that his own student was capable of such immorality – going against the will of god, having the nerve to command nature and demanding a devadasi for his own pleasure.

However, Vellasami soon realised that all the young girls living in the temple would be in similar situations if the place that offered them refuge ceased to exist. With a heavy heart, he decided to sacrifice one life to save the others.

‘Will you sing in the royal court of Bhawadh, dear Mariamma?’ he asked her one day after agonizing over the situation, yet unable to conceive an alternative by which the temple could be saved.

‘Is god present in the royal court of Bhawadh?’ she asked in all innocence.

‘He will be,’ said Vellasami, standing on the edge of truth and untruth. And so Mariamma went to Bhawadh, then to Skripal. Later, she sang in the royal courts of Bhiwandi and Moradabad and Goa. But she hadn’t been traded only for her divine voice – passed around patrons and kingdoms, Mariamma found herself enslaved by men who used her as they pleased, and then discarded her when they’d had their fill.

The story was a thinly-veiled secret in the Apte family; one that Meera had battled with all her life. Out of all of Mariamma’s descendents, Meera resembled her the most – she had inherited her voice, and the complexion of a higher-born from the man who had fathered Mariamma’s child. The Aptes never knew who he was, but their collective past cast a shadow on the women in the family. When she was a little girl, the children in her neighbourhood would tease Meera for her alabaster skin. ‘Did your mama sleep with Vasco da Gama,’ they would chant when they’d see her on the street, and she would rush to her mother with tears in her eyes. ‘The Aptes have good genes,’ her mother would console her in vain. Meera’s father had a more practical approach. ‘How does it matter, Meera? You are more than the colour of your skin,’ he’d say kindly but impatiently.

But it did matter to her. Every decision she took was to maintain her family’s honour – the honour Pandit Jayashankar had bestowed on her family by marrying her mother. He had trained her in the classical tradition, and all her life she had wanted to follow in his footsteps. His death had plunged them so close to poverty that she had had to reevaluate her plans. Meera now felt torn. She knew that singing for Sahil Malik was a highly lucrative opportunity, but the composer had a reputation of treating his singers like they were his property. How different would that be from how Mariamma had been treated? She didn’t know, but she followed her heart and chose Abhimanyu.