“Neela!” Queen Sunayana yelled from the corridor, giving Neela ample time to hide behind a life-size sculpture in her room before her stepmother spotted her. Queen Sunayana stopped at the threshold, her eyes sweeping the room. Neela pulled the end of her silk sari toward her and tucked it into her waist, attempting to make herself smaller—a difficult feat with her wide hips and long legs.
Queen Sunayana walked past a large elephant carved from ebony that stood guard at the entrance to Neela’s room. When her stepmother halted a few feet away, sweat erupted on Neela’s forehead. She prayed to the gods to keep her hidden from her stepmother’s sight. Neela knew she could not avoid her stepmother forever, but she did not want to begin an unpleasant conversation about her wedding. Why arrange a Swayamvara—a groom-choosing ceremony—if she had no choice in whom she married? Neela longed to garland a man who made her heart drum faster as she approached him—one whose eyes set hers on fire. It might be a fool’s hope, for such a man might not exist at all. But she was not ready to give up her dream.
The statue obscuring Neela depicted a dancer at the end of her performance, feet together, knees slightly apart, palms touching, and her face reflecting her bliss. Neela peeked at her stepmother through the gap between the sculpted dancer’s knees. Queen Sunayana stood with her hand on her hips, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Burn her. Where has the girl gone?” Queen Sunayana turned and stubbed her toes on a statue of an owl. She yelped loudly. “She is worse than her mother.” How dare she mention Neela’s departed mother? Neela almost jumped out of her hiding place to confront her stepmother before she realized she had no explanation for crouching behind a figurine. Her stepmother limped away, muttering about impudent girls.
Neela waited a few moments to ensure no one loitered outside her chambers, then emerged slowly, ready to bolt at any movement. When stillness prevailed, the tightness in her stomach melted away. Light flooded in from two large windows, illuminating the carved wooden figures scattered around the room. After her mother’s death, Neela had inherited her collection and had been adding more pieces each year. She rubbed the head of one of them, grateful for its help in concealing her from an unwanted visitor.
As her gaze traveled down, she stared in horror at her crumpled sari. Muttering about conniving stepmothers, Neela attempted to fix her sari pleats. Preoccupied with her garb, she missed Urmila, her half-sister, walking in till she uttered her name.
With her hands crossed, Urmila looked at Neela questioningly. “I just walked past my mother on the way here. She was upset she missed you. Where were you?”
Without meeting Urmila’s eyes, Neela said, “Oh, I was here. Not sure why I did not hear her.”
Urmila smirked knowingly. “You are avoiding her, Neela. That will only make her angrier with you.”
Neela’s head snapped up. “She arranged a Swayamvara for me—a ceremony for me to pick a husband from the gathered suitors—but wants me to garland a man of her choice. Why can’t I choose my husband?” She almost stomped her feet in rage.
Urmila looked at her in alarm. “What are you planning to do?” Neela’s delicate sister appeared like a tender vine in need of a sturdy tree for support. As always, Neela felt a deep surge of emotion, driving her to shield her sister from any harm, especially the harm wrought by her own actions. Among the vipers surrounding her, including her own parents, her sister remained one of the few whom Neela truly trusted.
Neela quickly reassured Urmila. “I will find a husband who won’t be intimidated by your mother.” She held her sister’s elbow and guided her to a bench.
“Is that wise, Sister?” Urmila asked, rubbing her wrist—a nervous habit of hers. “And would such a man even come to the event? Only our parents’ stooges have been invited to the Swayamvara, so your choices are limited.”
Neela leaned on her. “There is one other king in attendance. King Lambhodara.”
“But he is known to prefer the company of toddy to humans. Do you even know what Lambhodara looks like? True to his name, he could have a round belly.”
Neela laughed. “It could be worse. He could be bald.”
Urmila grinned, too. As their laughter rang in the halls, a guard knocked on her door. “Princess Neelambari, the king has ordered me to fetch you.”
Neela gulped down the remaining shreds of joy and stood up. Urmila squeezed her arm. “Don’t provoke Father.”
Anna Bushi 