To Dance On Your Fingertips - 4. Chapter 4

He spent the remainder of the day grinding neem seeds with a strength he hadn’t known he’d possessed. He didn’t stop to eat or rest, just collected his dried-up seeds and ground them against rock until they were dust, until every last infinitesimally tiny droplet of oil was wrung from their insides. It kept his mind from wandering. He had only just gotten used to his role in the gardens and in Salim’s courtyards and now he would have to—he’d have to... He didn’t know.

The skin of his palms peeled and chaffed. He stopped. Breathed.

In the end, no matter what he was tasked to do, he should be grateful to work in a place as lovely as this. To be served two meals per day and a modest wage—even if most of that wage went towards those two meals. To have a place indoors to sleep and a place for his ablutions. No matter how hard he worked or how much his hands blistered, the fate lines on his palms couldn’t be rubbed off, so he should accept and respect the gods’ plans for him.

He stood from his crouched position among the seeds when the sun touched the horizon. He should visit Simi. It’d be a difficult task, considering he was forbidden from stepping foot into the women’s quarters, but he might be able to get through if his words were pretty enough. Or perhaps if he looked pathetic and desperate enough.

He passed through a grove from which he was able to secure two yellow apples from a short tree. He wished he could present Simi with something more covetous—mangoes or sweets drenched in rose syrup or even some sugarcane juice—but the apples would have to suffice for now. The servants weren’t reprimanded by way of caning for picking the apples, as they were the aristocracy’s least desired fruit, but if he were to snatch a mango, he’d probably end up with a broken hand.

As he approached the women’s quarters, a young girl stationed outside the entryway glared at him with open contempt.

He offered her a shiny apple. Her glare only intensified.

“Um,” he started, “I work with Simi-madam. I know she’s sick and I was just hoping to wish her well. Please? If you go in and ask her—”

“Men aren’t allowed in. Which one of your disgusting little friends dared you to try this? I can yell for the guards and have you beaten blue.”

Well, there was no getting around her then. “Simi-ma’am!” he called. “It’s Somesh! How are you?”

“Stop yelling! She’s trying to sleep, who do you think—”

“Oh, let the boy in,” Simi’s voice called from inside the building. “It wouldn’t be the first time any of you snuck a male in!”

The girl blushed a furious red but moved aside without further complaint. To Somesh’s relief, there were very few women inside the room, just Simi herself surrounded by two girls who quickly left. Simi’s cot was larger than the others, with soft bedding, pillows, and a heavy blanket; she even had a privacy curtain that separated her little corner of the room from the others’. Her leg was propped up on a cylindrical pillow and it was twice the side of her healthy leg, engorged with edema. She wiggled her toes.

“It looks worse than it is,” she said.

He sat by her side and offered her the apples, now feeling embarrassed by his paltry tribute.

“Thank you, puth.” Child. Her age, suddenly, was starkly apparent. She lived in the quarters for young, unmarried maidens. As far as Somesh was aware, she didn’t have any children of her own—or any family at all, for that matter. As kind and open as she was, he didn’t think it was his place to ask about any of this; he didn’t want to embarrass her with intrusive questions and he especially didn’t want to conjure up any unpleasant memories.

He noticed she had some empty plates stacked on her side table, still fragrant with the scents of rose and pistachio and mango. Hamid must have been keeping her fed with food appropriated from the royal kitchens. He turned his gaze back to her leg, swollen from the knee down. “Does it hurt?” he asked. His mother had used to ask him to massage away her aches and pains—when he was small enough, he would walk up and down her back as she laid down on her stomach. But Simi wasn’t his mother and it would be quite improper to offer a massage now. Maybe he could distract her from pain with conversation.

“It hurts when I move it,” she answered simply.

“Is it an old injury?”

“In a way, if you can call old age an injury.” She smiled. “Personally, I consider old age a psychic injury more than anything.”

He offered her a smile and wanted nothing more than to grip her hand and squeeze it tight but not only did the walls have ears, they had eyes, too. So, he didn’t move—just opened his mouth and talked, about the one thing he needed to talk about the most. “Ma’am,” he whispered, “Prince Feroz asked to see me in his chambers tonight.”

She didn’t move for a long moment and Somesh wondered if she hadn’t heard him. Then, her jaw clicked and unclenched. “You... have attracted royal attention twice now,” she finally said.

“Is that very bad?” he asked, unable to keep the tension out of his voice. “Do you know what the prince might want? Does he do this sort of thing often?” Can he be trusted to be kind?

Her gaze flicked to somewhere behind his left ear. “He was sweet when he was a babe,” she said. “Following Aliyah Begum—his wet nurse—around everywhere, holding onto her veil. Then as he grew older he spent more and more time away from the capital. So, I don’t know him well. He’s bookish. A bit... aloof, at times.” She met his gaze. “I’m sorry. I can’t say for certain whether or not you have anything to worry about.”

There was a silent understanding between the two of them that neither wanted to give voice: it was possible, maybe even likely, that the prince wanted a bedmate. Perhaps just for a night. Somesh found the prospect confounding: there were many servants, and dancing girls, and noblewomen that were pretty and eloquent and far more interesting than him.

Or: it could be that Somesh’s hasty retreat yesterday had offended the prince in some way and he merely sought to punish him for his insolence.

“Hamid is on his way back!” one of the girls called from outside.

“You better go before he catches you,” Simi said. She smiled but it was frayed at its edges.

He slipped outside and saw that the sun had nearly disappeared into the ocean, the sky purple and deep blue. Abdul would be looking for him by now—he ran towards the men’s quarters.

“There you are!” Abdul said when he saw him. “You weren’t in the garden. It’s nearly dark!”

“Just a moment!” he panted, running into the building and towards his cot. He grabbed his tiny Krishna from its spot on the floor and pocketed it. He’d need all the help he could get tonight.

When he emerged outside again, Abdul had his arms crossed over his chest. “You’re so irritating sometimes. I don’t know what Feroz sees in you.” He turned on his heel and Somesh hurried after him.

“Are you genuinely mad at me?” he asked, jogging up to his side.

“Yes,” Abdul said. “I told you to make yourself gross and ugly and you didn’t listen and now look what’s happened.”

“What’s happened?” Somesh asked innocently, already starting to feel better about the whole situation. Riling Abdul up always helped soothe his nerves.

“So. Irritating,” Abdul muttered under his breath.

Somesh had memorized the route to Salim’s chambers but the rest of the palace remained an indecipherable labyrinth. Without Abdul or one of the other boys to follow, he’d never find his way in or out. The lamps were being lit now, their warmth bathing the marble and stone paths before them as Abdul guided him through the narrow back hallways reserved for servants. When they passed by the wing for guests—the wing that housed Kasim—Abdul quickened his pace.

Feroz’s chambers were located in the west wing, and the arched windows offered panoramic views of the ocean. Somesh wanted to slow and watch the distant boats on the water, but Abdul told him to stop lollygagging.

They came to a halt in front of large doors bracketed by two massive guards that Somesh had to stare up and up and up at.

“This is the one his highness asked for,” Abdul said and one of the guards moved to put his hands on Somesh, patting him down, quick and perfunctory, nothing like Kasim’s touches had been. His hand stilled when it landed on Somesh’s hip and he stuck it into his pocket, pulling out Somesh’s idol.

He arched a thick brow as he stared down at the small figure—which was dwarfed in his hand—but evidently found no issue with it and returned it to Somesh, who gripped it tight, its tiny edges and points digging into his palm.

“Thank you,” Somesh said. The guard said nothing, just pushed one door open just enough for Somesh to slip through. He glanced over at Abdul, who offered him a strained smile before the guards closed the door on his face.

Somesh turned around and found himself in a dimly lit antechamber that seemed to function as a kind of study. The stone floor was covered with thick, overlapping Persian carpets and from the vaulted ceiling hung intricately designed Moroccan lamps, flickering with orange firelight. The room wasn’t overly large and it felt smaller still due to the sheer number of books and trinkets stacked on the tables and the floors. There were maps of places Somesh couldn’t recognize and there were parchments scattered everywhere with notes written in—something. Urdu? Arabic, Persian?

It astonished him that Feroz even had this many possessions in his suite when he spent the majority of his time in Rehgistan. Strange-looking toys and baubles made of ivory, metals, and polished rosewood glinted in the lamplight. Some of the trinkets looked like idols of the gods of somewhere far away. Some other members of the aristocracy would surely frown upon the thought of pagan artifacts being kept near copies of gilded Qurans. Or, what he assumed were Qurans.

On one wall, a painting of the royal family. Its members stared out at the viewer with blank, unsmiling faces, eyes heavily hooded and rimmed with kohl in the traditional stylized fashion. The king—who Somesh had only glimpsed through the tangled roots of the banyans when he was out with his harem—looked young and strong in this image, and he stood next to his seated wife. The deceased queen mother had two young boys standing to each side of her, and a chubby toddler—undoubtedly Prince Feroz—seated on her lap.

Against the king’s other side stood a girl.

An arched doorway covered by a thick velvet curtain separated this room from the next. Careful not to step on any books, he walked over, pushed the curtain aside, and poked his head into a room that was dark aside from scattered moonlight.

“Prince Feroz?” he asked softly. Was the man not in? Then why were the guards stationed outside?

This room was very large: there was a massive bed situated against the far wall and there were several plush chairs and chaises placed about. A fireplace was inlaid in one wall but its hearth was dark and cold. A tiger pelt was laid out in front of it.

He shuddered. Where the study was warm and lived-in, this bedroom was cold and impersonal. He stepped through the archway and glanced through some more doors: one led to an empty bathing area, another lead to a smaller suite with its own bath.

He wrung his hands. What was he supposed to do? Wait here?

His eyes were drawn to the final doors in the room: tall and made of wood and glass and clearly leading to a balcony. Through the glass, he could see the full moon peeking out from behind the silvered clouds and, beyond that, the glittering black sea.

He couldn’t resist a view like that. He pulled open one heavy door and was immediately met with a salty-sweet breeze. He placed his hands on the marble railing and, from this vantage point, he could see the lamps from the city below and the lights on the boats as they were reeled into the docks. The moon above highlighted the edges of the scene in strokes of silvery white.

The sound of a soft snorting to his right startled him away from the railing.

On the far end of the balcony sat Feroz, leaning against a mountain of pillows, nearly completely hidden by shadows.

When Somesh approached and the shadows fell away, he saw that the prince was asleep. His eyes were closed and he was in soft, plain cotton sleep clothes, the buttons of his tunic undone far enough to reveal much of his bare chest.

Somesh felt himself redden and he looked away. It was then that he noticed the strange metal contraption a few feet in front of the sleeping man. It looked brass and consisted of a long cylinder—tapered down at one end—placed upon three thin legs. He took a step back, afraid of what it might do if he touched it.

Feroz snored once more before his breathing became smooth and quiet again. He didn’t dare wake the man; he had no idea how he’d react. The entire situation was bizarre. Surely the man didn’t mean to fall asleep—why would he put himself in such a vulnerable position? Somesh could be an assassin! Sure, there were guards outside, but he could easily pick up a heavy trinket from the study and break it over the prince’s head before either guard knew what was happening.

Luckily for Feroz, Somesh was no assassin, so he instead slipped Krishna back into his pocket, gathered some pillows, and seated himself on the other side of the balcony. He wanted to be visible when Feroz awoke so he would know immediately that Somesh had done as he’d bid and come to him.

Now that he was looking, through the shadows, Somesh could see Feroz’s chest rise up and down. Steady as a heartbeat, in rhythm with the faraway waves crashing against the shore, hypnotizing in a way. The night was warm and the moon tucked itself behind a curtain of clouds.

Somesh’s eyelids drooped but he wouldn’t allow them to shut. He would not be caught lacking again. He would sit there and wait.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when Feroz finally began to stir but it was still dark. Very dark: the clouds had not only consumed the moon, but the blinking stars as well, and he could smell rain in the air. Feroz stretched luxuriously, long arms extending above him and toes curling. Somesh hardly blinked, not speaking lest he startled the other man.

Feroz smacked his lips, blinking lazily. He stilled when he caught sight of Somesh.

His brow furrowed in confusion. And then, sudden clarity: “Oh, you’re here.”

He nodded, for some reason unable to find his voice.

“Good,” Feroz continued, sitting up straight. “I wanted to tell you I found a book by your Meera. It wasn’t in Urdu but that was no matter—I didn’t have Salim to read it aloud to me—he’s interested in all sorts of languages, even Sanskrit—so I asked a guard.”

Somesh blinked. “What?”

Feroz didn’t seem affected at all by Somesh’s rudeness. “I wanted to ask you something—” He cut himself off with a yawn before continuing—“Meera writes about the love she feels for your god Krishna. To the point that it’s plainly obvious she’s in love with him. And not just in love, but in lust. Her, a mortal woman, and him, divine.” His gaze suddenly lots its sleep-fog—it was sharp, intense. “Do you not consider that sacrilege?”

Somesh chewed on the inside of his cheek, once again set off-kilter by this man. “Well, religious gurus have said—”

“I asked what you thought.” Feroz leaned back, his face once again obscured by shadows.

What did he think? He’d never thought about this before. “I... I think Krishna, in particular, is meant to be loved that way. It’s—maybe it’s not expected, but it’s at the very least permissible for his worshippers to be in love with him.”

Somesh could hear the smile in his voice when Feroz spoke next: “Are you in love with him?”

In the eyes of this man, Somesh figured there was nothing he could say that would make him less of an infidel, less of a hell-bound savage. So, he said, “Sure. Why not?”

“And it makes no difference that Meera was a woman and you’re a man?”

Somesh thought of Prince Arjuna, Krishna’s favourite human. In the old stories, Krishna had declared that if anything happened to Arjuna, he would destroy the entire universe in an instant and start again from scratch.

“No,” Somesh said. “It makes no difference.”

Feroz stood suddenly, causing Somesh to flinch back, even though there was still plenty of distance between the two men. He didn’t make a move towards him and instead walked through the doors and into the bedroom.

Somesh waited for a beat and then another. When Feroz didn’t call for him, he got up on shaky legs and followed—obedient, like a dog.

Feroz was fiddling with the bedsheets—of which there were many—and then started stacking pillows up against the headboard. He got into the bed and Somesh thought of Vishnu reclining on Shesha: that was Feroz, a god in his abode, so at ease in his loose and wrinkled sleepwear, his hair in disarray, beard slightly overgrown, no pearls or rubies adorning his neck and wrists. Comfortable and at ease.

A stark contrast to how Somesh felt standing at the foot of the bed.

“Sit,” Feroz said.

He perched himself delicately on the edge of the mattress.

“A little closer,” Feroz said.

He moved a little closer. When Feroz gave him a reproachful look, he drew himself up to the headboard, until they were sitting next to each other, scant inches between them. He pulled his knees up to his chest and looked to the prince for further instruction.

“Tell me something,” Feroz said. He yawned and slunk down on the bed until he was lying down. “Anything.”

“Anything?” His voice was barely a whisper.

“A story.”

“I only know my mother’s stories. They’re about gods.”

“That’s fine.”

The prince looked half-asleep.

He cleared his throat, finding his mother's voice in his head, imaging he was small again in her arms. “Yashoda was Krishna’s adoptive mother," she said through him. "One day, when Krishna was a mere toddler, she caught him eating sand, so she took hold of his little hand and pried it away from his lips. She demanded he open his mouth and spit it out.

“Krishna opened his mouth, and in it, Yashoda saw the entirety of creation: stars and suns and moons and all of time. She saw herself, all of her ancestors, and all of her descendants. She saw Earth and each of its beaches, and on the beaches, she saw every single grain of sand, each in its rightful place.”

Feroz stared at him with a lazy gaze, eyes half-closed. “And then what?”

“And then nothing,” he said. “That’s the end of the story. I imagine she told him to close his mouth.”

Feroz laughed, low and soft, not at all like the boisterous laugh of his middle brother, and Somesh's cheeks burned. “My own Scheherazade,” Feroz said, his tone perhaps a bit mocking.

Somesh had no idea who Scheherazade was.

The prince slept. Somesh didn’t dare move. He turned his head to the tall windows and watched as the rains started again, fat droplets colliding against the ocean until the sky and sea were indistinguishable from one another.