at him, unable to speak. His third eye started to open. She cringed and hugged the post for support, waiting for the searing heat that would turn her to a mound of ash.
Nothing happened.
She turned to look at Zarku, who was staring at her with those whiteless eyes.
“My third eye won’t open,” he breathed. “I DON’T UNDERSTAND THIS!”
Tara released a deep and shaky breath.
For a moment, they stood staring at each other in the silent moonlit clearing. Tara stood frozen while Zarku studied her with his eyes narrowed. Suddenly, she turned and ran. Zarku did not follow.
As she disappeared behind the temple, she heard him call out.
“My Vetalas will find you, Tara, and they will complete the job I was not able to do. Watch your back.”
•••
It was more luck than anything that guided Tara back to where she had left her things. She felt as if she was in some kind of weird dream and unable to make sense of anything. Tara stumbled to the bedding, lay down, and fell into an exhausted sleep.
She awoke once more to the cacophony of bird calls and sunlight glinting through an undulating green ceiling. And she was still alive. She sat up and clasped her knees to her chest, deep in thought. The sun was still shining, the birds still singing. She had been through so much in the last day and night. She had lost her beloved brother and then discovered Zarku’s past. What was more shocking was that he had been unable to kill her. I wonder why? she asked herself.
Tara stood up and shook out Suraj’s blanket to put it away. Something dropped out of the folds and sparkled in the morning sunlight. Tara bent to retrieve it. It was the silver thread Zarku had been talking to last night: an anklet. It was heavy and the beaten silver was in an intricate design. It must have been his mother’s and when it had fallen into her blanket, it had protected her. That seemed to be the only reason she was still alive. Tara said a prayer to his mother, slipped the bracelet into the bundle, and finished packing.
She sat down to think. It was now more important than ever to find Prabala before Zarku and the Vetalas did. But could she do it alone? Suraj and she had set out on this journey believing that their mother and grandfather were alive. She would carry on alone and find them. Suraj’s death would not be in vain.
Tara headed north. She gathered edible roots and berries to munch. The food she had packed was long gone but she still had a bit of water left. She would manage till she reached a village.
Tara was deep in thought as she continued walking. She hated doing anything alone, always seeking out Suraj’s companionship. Now she had no choice. And she found that she was not as scared as she thought she might be. A small frisson of pride shot through her. I can do this, she thought. She marched on, keeping a sharp eye on the moss-covered forest floor. Then she saw it: a small path made by bare feet. She hurried along it. The trees started thinning around her and sunlight poured through in large patches of liquid gold.
All of a sudden she stopped. She heard a faint chant in the distance. The voices came closer ... still closer ... and her heart started thumping. She stepped off the path and cautiously dodged from tree to tree. Had Zarku sent his Vetalas? But she knew they only came out at night. Had her wicked stepmother sent a search party to haul them back home? It couldn’t be; she was miles away from Morni. Was her father searching for them? Not possible — he did not care about them at all.
Who could it be?
“Ram Nam Satya Hai.”
“Ram Nam Satya Hai.”
The chant for the dead. Now she understood, and her heart slowed its frantic beat. A group of villagers were carrying one of their dead to the burning ground outside the village. She had never seen a funeral pyre and she was curious. Children were normally not allowed to watch a Sati ceremony, though she had heard about it in the stories that their father had told them. Most of the villagers believed that cremation purified the soul of the dead. The ashes were then scattered by the eldest son of the family into the holy Ganges River so that the soul would be one with the Gods.
As the voices drew nearer she hid behind the trunk of a large tree. The procession passed her by and she saw four men holding the legs of a cot, on which lay a body covered in white cotton from head to toe. Many men followed the cot and its bearers, calling out the chant of the dead. A lone woman followed, dressed in a dazzling white saree. Her long, black hair framed a pale face. She seemed to be completely oblivious of her surrounding and was half dragged, half carried by two villagers.
Tara squeezed her eyes shut. The woman was the widow of the dead man and was being forced to perform Sati.” Her blood ran cold and she clamped her hand to her mouth to prevent herself from crying out to stop them. Sati was the destiny of any girl or woman who had the misfortune to become a widow. It was an age-old tradition where the woman was forced to burn herself on her husband’s funeral pyre. It was such a terrifying ordeal that most women (and sometimes mere girls) had to be drugged into submission so that they did not rebel, or so that they wouldn’t realize what was happening till it was too late. Tara shivered, despite the warmth of the afternoon sun.
She turned back to look at the procession, which was moving away rapidly. Suddenly, she noticed a tall, thin boy trailing behind, desperately trying to push through the men to get to the woman. He seemed to be twelve or thirteen, slightly older than Tara. He wore a muddied white kurta and his pyjamas were torn at the knee. She must be his mother, Tara thought. And it was evident he was trying to prevent her from committing Sati.
“Mother, wake up! MOTHER, it’s me, your son Ananth. Please, Mother, look at me,” he sobbed in a hoarse voice.
“Go away,” growled a ferocious-looking villager. “This is your mother’s destiny. No one can change it and it’s no use throwing a tantrum. Now behave, or you will incur the wrath of Lord Yama.”
He shoved Ananth hard, and Ananth fell to the side of the road, struck his head against a rock, and lay there dazed. The procession sped on and disappeared round a bend.
The boy sat up, hugged his knees, and sobbed quietly. Tara dropped the bundles and ran to him, wondering what to say. She had never seen a boy his age cry and was unsure of how to deal with it. Finally, she sat next to him and patted his shoulder.
For a few moments, the boy was completely unaware of Tara. After a while, his sobs subsided. He looked up and noticed Tara. Brown eyes looked into black ones.
“I’ve lost my father and my mother,” said Ananth without any preamble.
“I know,” said Tara, squeezing his shoulder.
Ananth started sobbing again, soft low sobs that seemed to rise unbidden from deep within him.
“Get her back. Please, save her,” he wept.
Tears welled up in Tara’s eyes and cascaded down her cheeks. She wiped them away. She left the bundles near Ananth and raced after the funeral procession. Maybe she could squeeze through the crowd and grab his mother just before the men set her on fire. She did not even know how they went about it, but she had to try.
“Aaaaargh,” someone yelled out from the head of the procession.
Everyone came to an abrupt halt. Tara froze. She peeped out cautiously from behind a tree and turned icy cold at
