I never felt the need to believe in the gods—after all I was born as one. Those so-called “gods” never even helped me once—those gods are created by those on the top, for the top.
Leaving the durbar hall gives me relief—after all seeing parasites enjoy their so-called privilege abhors me.
I never learned to read. The symbols that somehow tell a person knowledge of those of old are only given to those with the privilege of their own station. I envy those even given a chance—the sight of seeing people being able to read and the realization that all you can see are lines and symbols you were never given a chance to understand.
I once had asked my didi what something meant—her face when asked was quite aghast—grief filled her face—despair filled me when I was unable to be given such explanation.
I had to do the same to my sisters—my face filled with the same despair when asked and the silence that follows.
I walk along the walls touching the writings that seem like drawings to me, unable to even read the simplest letter.
I keep walking. I stop when I have come across those I deem a parasite—not only that one of the top—a prince.
He greets me—incredibly polite. I slightly lower my guard—after all he looks the same age as Usha—she would look at me in disgust if she were to hear my thoughts, she would never stand for it—oh how I miss her sass.
His attendants are nervous—it seems he has a proposition. “I shall hear you out,” I smile. Refusal comes to mind to whatever he requests—but I’ll hear him out.
“I wish to become king.”
My interest spikes up—a prince who is 10th in line asking me.
“What can you bring to me that those inside the hall could never do, my prince?”
I ask him—thinking of whatever answers he will say.
“All you ask for and I ask the hand of your sister.”
My rage almost gets the best of me as my mana—its pressure erupts in a minuscule of a second—I smile. One of his attendants soils himself—I smile.
“Whatever do you mean, my prince?”
I feign ignorance—I act as if I know nothing. “Oh my—did something happen?” looking at the attendant who soiled his pants and dropped to the floor.
I drop the facade and lose the smile. I walk closer to him and hold his shoulder, my mouth near his ear. “I shall give you an audience somewhere no one can notice and you better explain,” I whisper, gripping his shoulder tightly as I walk past him.
I smile—walking and passing through other people—as I continue on my way to the room I was lent in so-called hospitality. I wait for nightfall as I still hear the festivity that these walls could not muffle from the durbar hall.
I wait. I soothe. I simmer.
The night falls.
I leave my room and see the prince along with an attendant who seems to be of high standing but his hands say otherwise.
The halls are quiet, no servants are nearby—after all, who would want to serve an untouchable?
“My uncle—a farmer who became a merchant.”
He introduces—his nervousness palpable—his fingers fidgeting.
“How will you explain those words you told me, my prince?”
“Vihaan—that is my name.”
He looks at me without the attitude he had a while ago—I smile.
His uncle prostrates himself—I narrow my eyes and look at him in confusion.
“Please forgive my bhanja.”
“MAMU! it is my fault,” he kneels, helps his uncle up while he tries to prostrate—his uncle stops him, reminding him that he is a prince and should act like one.
I smile softly—they remind me of my family, the mishmash of orphans that is denied by everyone above our station—I still remember that these people are above my station.
“As I have said, my prince—I shall give you an audience and of my time—now answer—what does a prince like you, born from a farmer’s daughter, want from me?”
I know who he is by the whispers around me. The power I was born with seems like I can hear anything and everything near me—the headache, not so much.
“Protection—even after your death—the protection I can bring your family—marriage.”
His uncle answers, his eyes looking straight at me. “Marriage to my bhanja—the hand of your sister Usha—in turn, protection to your family.”
I stay quiet, letting him explain himself.
“We do not care of your station—the reputation and your help is enough for bhanja to be king.”
I stare at his uncle—I think—I laugh.
“Two months is enough for you to be king, is it not?” I think of the duration time of a coronation.
The prince’s mamu’s face drops, but it revitalizes and he nods. The underlying meaning of the question only he can understand. The request they have given me—I can do in one night—after all, I am a god.
“I accept.”
I let my anger simmer and it will soon boil over—but I wonder, will Usha ever understand me?—Didi, I wish you were here with me.
