Chapter 16 #3
“She can be both?” Ellie pressed, confused.
Padma dismissed Ellie’s concern with a wave of her hand. “Kali slays Thousand-Headed Ravana—not with an astra, but with her own hands, tearing the heads from his body. She slaughters every one of his demon followers as well, and then she dances in their blood.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Constance protested. “If Sita could be Kali any time she wanted, why didn’t she just kill the first Ravana herself after he kidnapped her? Why sit there pretending to be helpless until her husband came to rescue her?”
“Sita knew her role in the story,” Padma countered. “It was Lord Rama who was meant to strike Ravana’s death blow.”
“You’re saying she chose not to save herself because she was following… fate?” Ellie filled in awkwardly.
Padma pinned both Constance and Ellie with an uncomfortably penetrating look. “I am saying that Sita is both more powerful and more complicated than you give her credit for.”
A chill shivered over Constance’s arms.
She considered what her grandmother was suggesting—that Sita had kept her own power concealed in order to let Rama’s story play out the way it had been meant to.
Rama’s tale was certainly influential. It was woven into the fabric of India, as much a part of the country as the distinctive flavors of its food, its famous Mughal palaces, or the rains of the monsoon.
If Sita had simply obliterated Ravana, there would hardly have been any story at all.
Constance thought of the pieces of Rama’s tale that were ingrained in her consciousness—the stringing of Shiva’s bow and the sacrifice of the giant vulture Jatayu.
The monkey king Sugriva’s duel with his usurper brother.
The loyal Hanuman discovering his own divine nature as he carried a mountain to the dying Lakshmana.
The epic was woven from gleaming threads of faith and devotion, friendship and sacrifice. Of what it meant to be a king and a warrior—to stand up for justice and bring people together.
How might India be different if that story had never happened?
“And is that why she let Rama send her away at the end of the story?” Ellie pressed crossly. “Because of fate?”
Constance had nearly forgotten that part of the tale—how Rama had fought long and fiercely to save Sita from the demon king, only to exile her to Valmiki’s ashram after they finally made it home. It seemed like another example of Sita’s placid acceptance of the most rank injustice.
A soft breeze, scented with the monsoon, whispered through the humble sanctuary. It stirred the delicate petals of the flowers that garlanded Kali’s throat and flickered the flame of the lamp.
Padma replied in a voice like the tolling of a low bell. “Every woman has secrets.”
The words sank through Constance’s skin, and she thought of her own secrets.
There was obviously the lie she had told that very morning…
but Constance hid more than just a fake engagement.
There were knives in her garters and a thirst for adventure in her heart.
Even her Indian self was a secret, not that she deliberately hid it…
but she had sometimes allowed it to be overlooked, glazed over as inconsequential.
Her grandmother’s murtis concealed behind English oak doors.
The world didn’t make room for everything that Constance truly was, a creature of hunger and dreams, hope and determination.
And what of her grandmother’s secrets? Constance still didn’t know why Aai had chosen a kind-hearted English civil servant over the princes that must have been lined up at her feet.
Then there was Ellie, struggling even now with the question of how much she needed to conceal her principles, her passions—and her love.
We are all hiding, Constance thought with a shiver of surprise. It was what the world demanded of women in order to protect their hearts. Fight their battles.
Survive.
Perhaps that was the lesson woven through Sita’s placid smile—the secret of what had to be kept safe until the time was right to unleash it upon the world.
None of their stories were true when one only read what was written on the surface.
Padma spoke again, her voice edged like iron.
“Charles Reginald Borthwick has harmed more innocent people than I could hope to count. He will go on harming them, unless he is stopped. He is just another demon, dressed up in a uniform with the power of an empire at his back. Should he gain the Brahmastra, he could unleash exponentially more destruction. I brought you here for Kali’s blessing because that is what she does—bring down demons. ”
Constance gazed up at the beautiful, dangerous goddess on the altar. “Then I’m glad we came.”
Her grandmother’s hand brushed Constance’s cheek, dry as paper and softly warm. Her eyes shone with a quiet, steady pride.
They rose together. The priest stirred, offering Padma a bowl of bright red paste. She swiped a bit of it up with her thumb and marked her forehead with a practiced gesture—a simple dot beneath a crimson crescent.
She turned to Constance.
Constance lowered her head and felt the warm pressure of her grandmother’s thumb on her brow. The paste tugged against her skin as it softly dried.
“Don’t forget to take your leave,” Padma chided gently.
Constance gave the goddess another bow, her palms pressed together over her breast. If you are in there, Constance thought, projecting the words from her quick-beating heart to the figure in front of her, help us beat this rotter.
The flame of the puja lamp danced in a wind that Constance couldn’t feel.
As she turned to go, the priest held out an offering wrapped in silver paper.
“What’s this?” Ellie asked in a whisper.
Constance peeked into the wrapping. “They’re treats!”
“It’s prashaada. Kali’s blessing,” Padma corrected her wryly.
Constance popped the prashaada into her mouth, letting the sweet flavor dance across her tongue. Did it make her feel blessed?
She felt… ready, and let that warm, steady conviction carry her back out into the clear light of the morning.