Samira took out a small, glowing marble from the desk and brought it close to the machine called the fan. The pale blue light contained within the sphere ebbed out, animating the fan, which churned the wind to remove any dampness from our skins.
As the cool air stole the sweat from my skin, I glanced around, taking in my surroundings. The room was cozy and spacious enough for two people to practice.
In the middle of the room there was a beautiful maroon carpet adorned with motifs and geometric patterns, stitched with golden thread. In one corner sat musical instruments such as bansuri, sarod, and veena, carefully arranged in their respective areas. At the opposite corner, there was a shelf to neatly organize musical compositions and texts related to music theory.
The glass spheres that held the mana gave off a warm luminescence, providing the perfect amount of light to set the mood for artistic endeavors. Fixed to the ceilings and mounted on the walls' torch holders, these spheres were carefully positioned to illuminate the room.
Some rakshakas carried these spheres using rectangular wooden bars with a glass frame and a hole underneath to hold the spheres. These tools were instrumental in finding nightcrawlers in dark corners—thieving wretches who desired to put their sticky fingers where they did not belong.
There are fortunate few who has spheres filled with colorful mana taken from magical beasts. But one rarely see such opulence, for it is only reserved for the richest of merchants, kshatriyas, and royalty.
"Let us begin," she said, her voice becoming stern, devoid of the previous sweetness, as if my willingness had licked the honey from her voice. Her once kind gaze regarded me as the worst possible creature in the world, and the only way to bring back her kindness was to master what she taught.
At first, she wasn’t too strict. Our initial vocal and instrument sessions were simple. However, as time went by, my progress exceeded her expectations, prompting her to intensify the pace.
Each day, I faced a demanding schedule. I worked hard to acquire proficiency in vocals while also mastering the sarod and esrag, with the former becoming my favorite instrument.
During this intense training, I found job opportunities for my sisters to work as servants in the house of a retired merchant who was in need of household help.
Though it may appear unbelievable, my learning journey was not solely driven by talent but also aided by vials of amrutham that revitalized my body. She explained to me that it is used by crows, the monster hunters.
To ensure that this isn't misused by others, every varna from birth is injected with a poison that counteracts the effects of amrutham, as well as other mutagens used by the crows. Ironically, they never considered doing it with untouchables. We were never seen as a threat. That was a mistake on their part. They made it easy for the asuras.
“I know you are gloating inside,” she began.
She was right; I was gloating inside. In fact, I still gloat about it, as music was the only thing that I learned with little difficulty. Don’t get me wrong, it was not an easy endeavour, but to be so good at something that you are passionate about is a feeling unmatched.
“Don’t let it get to your head,” she warned, and followed it with a surprise. “Today, I am going to take you somewhere to see something.”
“Show me what?”
"To a luxurious hotel owned by a wealthy merchant with a great love for music," I instinctively looked at my hand and spoke, without looking at her.
“I won’t be there with you, I can’t be there with you.”
"We'll assume the roles of two strangers meeting for the first time," she said. "You will join me, taking on the persona of a skilled musician from a distant land. Tell them you learned from this unknown master, a drunken leech named Shankara, who met an early grave before he could be known among elite circles."
“But my tattoo?”
"Pray, have I ever told you that I possess extraordinary skills as a makeup artist?" she whispered mischievously.
My eyes widened at the implication. "You can't! If anyone among them possesses owl eyes, that will be the death of me."
“There won’t be any owls. They don’t allow those freaks of nature inside respectable establishments.”
“But still-“
“Have you ever heard of the phrase: Risk is the spice of life.”
“What?”
“I took you in, knowing the risks because I wanted to teach you. I took the risk because I liked it, and now you need to take the risk. You agreed to my offer, knowing that you may never play music after this. So why not? This is the only time you will be able to showcase your talent.”
I couldn't help but agree with her. How could I disagree? The prospect of being praised for my talent was too enticing to resist. I yearned to be an eye-catching attraction, like a firefly that would obscure others with its radiance, becoming the sole beacon they could latch onto. I longed to be a marvel that would forever be etched in their hearts.
The thought of such admiration fueled my determination to excel in our charade.
It is the dream of every artist: to showcase their art, crafted to reflect a trickle of their being, just to be loved by many. It’s a peculiar form of acceptance, where the sins you’ve committed or the love you’ve felt are embraced by everyone because you let them in with your charm and artistry. It is an art that is very deceptive and manipulative in nature, and men are willing to get a taste of it.
Samira, armed with a mortar and pestle, made a paste using walnut shell powder, alkanet root, saffron threads, a pinch of red sandalwood, and ground cloves. With deft movements, she expertly blended the ingredients, creating a velvety brown pigment that flawlessly matched my skin tone.
She took my hand and, with a small brush crafted from polished oak and soft animal hairs, began her work. Her gaze was focused, and her strokes were delicate as she painted over the mark.
While it is true that the right hand needed to have a tattoo, it doesn’t have to be in one position. It just needs to be below the forearm. So she dipped her brush in a gray paint and painted a nightingale bird mark on my hand.
“Hopefully, for your sake, nobody notices anything,” she said, and my face turned pale with concern.
When Sameera noticed my countenance, her lips curled into a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to you. If they do I will protect you, I promise”
She took me upstairs and gave me the guest room to change.
I wore a dark blue angarakha kurta, and on top of it, I wore a resplendent maroon waistcoat. The waistcoat was adorned with exquisite peacock motifs and delicate floral designs, all meticulously stitched using golden threads. The middle of the waistcoat gleamed with golden buttons. Around my head, I wrapped a gray turban, representing the color of the nightingale sigil of the gayaka varna.
As I stepped out, a whistle escaped from Sameera, an act considered inappropriate for a woman of her social status and varna. However, at that time, I was oblivious to the intricacies of social etiquette among the ucchavarnas, so I did not state at her with disapproval or whined about the waning traditions.
"You look handsome,” she mused. “You can pass as long as you imitate the high society. Can you do it?”
I tried to do it and earned a sigh from her lips.
“You are doing it wrong,” she said, shaking her head. “Stand tall with your head held high and keep your spine straight. Do not slouch or hunch forward.” I listened to her and did as she instructed.
“Now look at me with a steady gaze.” I did, and she shook her head. “No, you look too nervous. Keep your eyes relaxed.” My eyes found hers, and my heart became unruly, beating too fast, but I reined it.
She gave further instructions to wear a calm and composed visage and smile with subtle grace, devoid of the flamboyance of dandies. She showed me how to let my arms swing and stride with the purpose of elegant simplicity, ensuring movements that are neither too fast nor too slow, mimicking the serenity of a gentle rivulet.
“You catch on quickly. Your head won’t roll on the floor after all,” she joked, much to my dismay, and tossed me a coin pouch. “Use it wisely,"
“If you don’t mind me asking, where do you get all that money? I rarely see you do anything but teach me,” I asked brazenly, and once again offense was not taken.
"I am glad you asked. I acquired it from a wealthy husband who died in an accident," she emphasized the last word as if it wasn't true. I waited for her to reveal that it was just a joke, but she did not, and I decided to let the matter be.
“You’ve never been out of the city before. If anyone pesters you with questions, I want you to tell them that you hail from Jayateera Nagaram. Most people don’t come from that side of the empire, all thanks to the taint that serves as a reminder of horrors beyond our continent.”
“The taint! Is it real?” I asked. I had heard that the worst of criminals would be sent to the taint, where they would be devoured by demons.
“I’ve seen it. It is like a wall of black mist that refuses to budge from its place. It’s like a scar on this continent, and everyone has to travel around it by ship to reach the southern side.”
“How does it feel to be there?”
"I remember the screams of those creatures. It is said that they possess eternal life and can only meet their end by a crow's sword. They persist for ages, waiting for their insatiable hunger to be quelled without dying."
“If I get caught for this,” she said, gesturing at my tattoo, “I’ll be torn apart, piece by piece. So please, my dear student, be careful,”
I left sometime after she did. I walked among the crowd, no longer feeling the glares of disgusted people. A few glanced at me, and at first, I thought they had caught onto me, but soon realized they meant nothing by it.
Eventually, I was convinced that no trouble awaited me.
It was the first time in my life that I ventured beyond the walls without the scrutiny of a sea of eyes forming a unified oppressive gaze, and I felt truly free.
As I continued to walk, I found myself on the wide eastern road, bustling with activity. My ears were assaulted by the sounds of hooves, creaking wheels, and the bustling activity of passing pedestrians who seemed to move with purpose like ants. It was a vibrant scene with hundreds of people walking about, and a few maneuvering their horse carts, bullock carts, and carriages without injuring anyone.
I followed the trail of ants and arrived at the entrance. I showed the guards my mark, and they let me pass. When I stepped outside, I was greeted by a row of lined-up wagons and carts. One of them was a magnificent carriage with a gilded exterior and intricately carved windows adorned with floral designs.
The driver, neatly dressed in a plain grey kurta and a vibrant red turban, engaged in conversation with a woman who wore a flowing silk saree in the shade of the moon. Decorating her hair were glass flowers that emitted a dim blue glow in the morning light. The exquisite mana jewelry adorning her was opulent and captivating, possessing the power to dazzle and leave onlookers speechless.
“That’s very expensive for a two-hour trip,” Samira complained in a high-pitched, spoiled girlish voice that seemed very unfamiliar to me. I approached with a mindful step, smiling the way she had taught me.
“Is this wagon going to gulabnagar?” I asked politely.
The wagoner looked me up and down, judging whether to frown or smile in response. “Yes.”
“Is that so?” I said, smiling. “How much do you charge, may I ask? I am quite in a hurry.”
The man stared at the clinking coin pouch as I shifted about impatiently.
“Four bronze coins per person.”
“My, my,” I said, shaking my head. “That is too expensive, sir. Do you leave immediately?”
He nodded in response.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes, of course.”
"Do we look like we shit gold?" I asked and then turned to the lady. "My apologies for the foul language."
“N-n-no,” He stammered, confused.
“Do not try to swindle us. The lady and I will only pay you two bronze each,” I stated firmly.
“If you don’t want a ride, you can find someone else to take you there,” He replied indignantly, and Samira cast a baleful gaze.
“I guess I have no choice but to report you for overcharging,” I said, raising my voice slightly. “Guards! Gua-“
The man grasped my hand and croaked, “What the hell are you doing, boy? Are you trying to get me killed?” He let out a tired sigh. “Fine, I will take you there. Get in.”
Samira came close and whispered. “I did not expect you to be the one to take risks. You are a nice little con, aren’t you?”
She stepped back and politely greeted me by joining two hands.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. May I know your name?”
“My name is Indrasena. I hail from southern province, It is my pleasure to meet you.”
"It's my pleasure. I'm Samira," she replied, concealing any hint of her place of origin. She never shed her cloak, never revealed the enigma beneath. She was an elusive spirit with veiled intents that always evaded my scrutiny for answers.
