Chapter Twenty-Eight Blood for Better #2
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Poppy glanced at the children again. A bitter thread of kinship tugged at her heart as she beheld the other orphans, chattering among themselves in rapid-fire Virian. “Was it some time ago? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Their mother passed a few years ago,” Ganak said.
“She was a seamstress, and the workshop she worked in collapsed. They’d moved to Andhra for the opportunity, but the cost of living there was too high for my brother after she’d passed.
Without her income, my brother took to stealing to make ends meet.
Not long after her death, he was shot by a policeman. ”
Once, the news that a police officer had all but executed a man without a trial would have shocked Poppy. Now, she barely blinked at the fact.
At that moment, the two seniors returned. “Why is no one eating?” Mishika asked. “Come on, eat.”
“What about you?” Poppy asked. “Aren’t you joining us?”
Kanav waved a hand. “Oh, we are not hungry. At our age, our appetites are hardly there.”
“Not like a growing child,” Mishika crooned, sitting beside her youngest grandchild so she could pick up a small ball of rice and stuff it in his mouth.
Poppy observed the interaction between grandmother and grandchild longingly, another tender moment that her privileged upbringing had not afforded her.
The Imperial Family had rejected her. Demetria had been raised in Welkland, and her parents rarely visited.
But then Poppy observed details in the tableau that she hadn’t noticed before: the gaunt, jagged angles of Kanav’s and Mishika’s bodies, carved by hunger; the undersized, delicate bodies of the children, shrunken from lack of nourishment.
Guilt filled any space that jealousy might have once held.
The viceroy—her own father—was responsible for the deaths of these children’s parents.
His failure to enact labor laws, and his empowerment of a corrupt law-enforcement system, had created three forgotten orphans.
And now, with his current export laws, there wasn’t even enough food for everyone to eat.
Poppy took the edge of her plate in hand, ready to insist that either the grandparents or the children eat her meal, but Hasan caught her wrist.
“Don’t,” he whispered in Welkish. “Hospitality is essential in our culture. If you refuse to eat their food, you will insult their honor.”
“Honor won’t feed them,” she hissed.
“You can, once you’re vicereine,” he shot back. “Offending them does not inspire support, however.”
Fuming, Poppy pulled her plate to herself and took a reluctant bite.
Intrigued by their exchange, Ganak asked, in Virian, “Do you intend to succeed the duke, then, Miss Sutherland?”
Poppy and Hasan exchanged startled looks. She hadn’t been aware that Ganak had been eavesdropping.
“She does,” Kanav answered when neither of them spoke. “She was in the village all morning, listening to our problems.”
“I’m here to help,” Poppy said, recovering herself. “People are struggling to survive here. If I can learn more about what challenges you’re facing, I can address the problems at the root.”
“Oh, but we aren’t staying,” Mishika said.
“You’re selling?” Hasan asked, incredulous. “But where will you go?”
“Marnapur, or maybe Indrabad up north,” Kanav said. “Wherever we can find the best schooling for the lowest cost.”
“Why?” Poppy asked. “Forgive me, but both your son and daughter-in-law died as a result of moving to the city. Wouldn’t it be best to stay here?”
“An education is the most important thing,” Ganak declared. “If I had a certificate from one of the Welkish schools, I would not have had to work in the factory. I’d still have my leg.”
Poppy bit her lip, her next question on her tongue, but she wasn’t sure if Ganak would be offended if she asked.
Seeing the question on her face, he explained, “I left the village to find work, to help support my brother after his wife’s passing.
Although I am literate, many companies refused to hire me as a bookkeeper or tutor because of my lack of formal education.
I joined a factory, but there was an accident, and I was let go because I was no longer of use to the company.
I couldn’t afford the rates of a doctor in Andhra, and the wound got infected.
Eventually, I returned home, where the village healer had to amputate it. ”
“So you see,” Mishika said, “selling the land makes the most sense for us. It will sustain us until the children finish school and find steady, safe jobs. The Welkish academies are expensive—but they’re worth it.”
Poppy didn’t want to disagree, not when the old woman spoke with such conviction. But her own experiences at a Welkish academy had nearly broken her. She doubted the schools on the island, run by Welkish administrators, would be any more welcoming to Virian students.
Carefully, she said, “The Welkish schools don’t focus on Virian history, aside from the colonization of the island. The lessons are . . . biased. Are you not concerned that your grandchildren will lose your traditions and culture?”
“Culture couldn’t have saved my son or daughter-in-law,” Kanav answered. “But an education could have. It’s not an easy choice to make—we are not selling our ancestral home lightly—but we cannot lose a future generation to preserve the past.”
“It hardly matters.” A hard edge entered Ganak’s tone. “A lot of Virian history is biased too. Against vasudhakt. An unfortunate by-product of daivyakt nobility gatekeeping education, I suppose.”
“Biased, how?” Hasan asked. His cool tone was layered with skepticism.
“For one, when daivyakt tell the origin story of how they came to wield divine power, they like to say that daivyakhi was given to the holiest of Virians, implying some sort of spiritual shortcoming on the behalf of vasudhakt. If it’s not piety, then usually there is some other trait that vasudhakt lack that supposedly made them unworthy: Intelligence, bravery, athletic prowess, the list goes on.
Tales like this have enabled daivyakt to treat vasudhakt as inferior for the entirety of our history, when in reality, no one knows why the gods chose the people they did.
Daivyakt judge Jagat Rai for what he did, but none of them are willing to acknowledge the role that casteism played in driving him into the arms of the Welkish missionaries. ”
His speech was met with silence. Poppy wasn’t sure what to say. Hasan’s face had become stony.
Catching sight of Hasan’s expression, Mishika immediately scolded Ganak. “Don’t bring your politics in front of the guests!”
“Tell me where I lied, Ma. Is it offensive to speak the truth?”
Mishika snapped at him, a series of fast lines in a flurry of Virian. Poppy had gained enough fluency to understand that she was reprimanding her son for showing poor hospitality, and insisting that he either retract his statement or leave the table.
Face pinched, Ganak put his empty plate in his lap and wheeled himself out of the dining room in a huff, the chair bumping against the wall and on the other chairs in his haste. The sight stirred something in Poppy’s chest.
Hasan must have seen her face shift, because he bumped her gently with his arm. “What are you thinking?”
“I feel terrible that he lost his leg, especially so young.”
He shook his head. Meeting her eyes, he told her in Welkish, “Don’t pity him. He’s still alive in a world that wants him dead. He may have suffered greatly, but in the end, he’s lost nothing.”
In a way, Poppy understood. Surviving in a racist society was an act of resistance in and of itself. But she wished it didn’t have to be.
· · ·
By the time they’d left Kanav and Mishika’s house, Poppy knew she had been wrong when she’d said that she had nothing to give up.
She’d been wrong when she thought that she had the most to lose.
If she lost her challenge against Richard, the worst thing she could face was exile, but these people would continue to suffer and die under the regime of another indifferent viceroy.
Hasan’s words about Ganak resonated with Poppy deeply.
Every single person she had met today had survived in a society that had been designed to profit from their lives, individual coals destined to burn up in the fire of imperial greed.
Their survival had not been an accident—it was by choice, a series of decisions that they had made every day: to sacrifice, to give something up in exchange for another day, another year on this earth.
Mishika and Kanav traded meals for the growth of their grandchildren, were willing to trade their ancestral land and traditions for generations who would eventually forget them.
Poppy had faced her own hardships, but they paled in comparison to the battles these villagers fought every day, a reflection of the greater war to survive that spanned the island.
Admitting this did not belittle her own struggles.
Yes, she’d known racism—but she hadn’t realized how deadly it could be when one didn’t have wealth or an education to shield them.
Hot shame spread through her as she recalled how she had insisted she had nothing more to sacrifice.
What a fool she’d been, to think that she could fight this war without spilling blood.
When they returned to the car, Poppy turned and looked at the banyan tree. To Hasan, she said, “Give me your knife.”
He eyed her suspiciously. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to try,” she told him. “Trust me.”
She held her breath as Hasan gave her a long, evaluating look, searching her gaze with his coal-black eyes.
Wordlessly, he took out his dagger and handed it to her.
She crossed the grass and circled the base of the tree, gazing at the gods carved into the ancient trunk, searching until she found the one she was looking for: Rukmini, the mother.
Before she could lose her nerve, she nicked her thumb with the edge of the dagger, drawing a thin line of blood. Behind her, the sound of footsteps crunched on dead grass as the villagers’ curiosity drew them closer to her.
Poppy ignored the crowd as she gently smeared her blood on the bark below Rukmini’s face.
As she did, she prayed, You are the mother of this island, and a mother protects and provides for her young.
My father has failed to care for the people of this island.
With your blessing, help me to become what these people need.
Silently, she finished with the prayer Hasan had taught her.
My veins are a vessel . . . Hoping that Rukmini had heard her, she closed her eyes and reached for her daivyakhi.
Moisture flooded her senses, deep in the soil, plentiful in the air around her.
It would take more energy to condense it from the air, so she pulled from the soil instead, funneling it up in a thin stream that burst from the soil at the base of the banyan tree.
Poppy’s palms grew sticky with sweat as she forced the stream to remain calm and steady, a fountain instead of a geyser.
A ripple of amazement ran through the villagers. “Poppy,” Hasan whispered, his tone awed. Her control slipped. The spring faltered, losing its shape.
“Shhh!” she hissed. He quieted.
“Get a bucket, quick!” one of the villagers barked. A scuffle ensued, and a woman rushed forward with a bucket. Poppy traced her hand in an arc. The spring shot higher. A hollow, tinny sound filled the air as the stream drummed on the bottom of the empty bucket.
When it was filled, two more villagers came forward with containers.
Holding her breath, Poppy maintained the flow, until not one but six buckets had been filled.
When her knees grew soft and her vision blurred, she forced herself to stop.
The spring burbled as it seeped back into the ground.
Poppy’s skin felt clammy; she’d run on the edge of using her mortal energy.
“Poppy, you did it!” Hasan shouted, running into the square. He grabbed her shoulders, grinning ear to ear. “I knew you had it in you.”
“It only took a little bit of blood,” she deadpanned, though it had taken a lot more than that—humility, connection, and sacrifice on her part.
But she hadn’t gotten here alone. She had failed multiple times on her own, and would have remained a failure if others hadn’t helped her: the widows, Harithi—even Samina’s brutal honesty had contributed to this moment.
Most of all, Poppy owed this moment to Hasan, who had been given multiple opportunities to cry off, and had stayed true to their deal regardless.
Despite her failures, he believed in her—perhaps more than she deserved.
She would not let Hasan down. She wouldn’t let any of these people down. She would become vicereine, and then she would change the fate of this island.