Outside, dark clouds roiled through the skies over Bhopal, and pealing thunder rattled the window panes, counterpoint to the shrieking cries of Arati Amonkar’s nephew, now only moments old. Grey and pink and squirming, he’d slid out from Arati’s sister already protesting, as though eager to be thrust back inside. His newborn cry, with a strange gurgling undercurrent as descant, was piercing and high.

“Ah, how handsome,” Arati’s mother said, the newly minted grandmother clapping her hands with glee. And then, before anyone’d had a chance to respond, she turned to Arati and said, “Now, second daughter, when will you be marrying and giving me a grandchild of your own, mmm?”

It was in that instant, in which her mouth hung open as her brain struggled in vain to frame some response, Arati knew she would fly.

She didn’t know where she would go, at first, or how she would get there, but the answer came soon enough. Arati’s sister was not yet out of bed, just learning the trick of nursing her young son, friends and family still enjoying the betel packs distributed in celebration of the birth, when Arati announced her intentions to her parents, gathered in the house’s main room.

“The navy?” Arati’s father, eyes widened, showing white all around the pupils, repeated the word as though it were some vile curse.

“The Interplanetary Fleet Air Corps,” Arati corrected, with mounting impatience. “I want to be a pilot.”

Arati’s mother just shook her head, back and forth, back and forth, repeating the words, “Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no,” over and over again like a mantra.

“No,” Father said with a note of finality, slapping his knee with an open palm like it was drum. “It is not fitting. I will not allow it. Tradition prohibits.”

“Tradition?” Arati’s face contorted as if the word tasted sour in her mouth. “What tradition is that, Father?” She pointed to her mother, dressed in sadi and coli, her face, neck, and arms bare. “The one that says Mother has to remain covered by a mola, her face hidden in public.” Arati snapped her fingers, throwing her head back with a humorless bark of laughter. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot. Some traditions are meant to be abandoned.” She paused, and narrowed her eyes. “Or do you mean for Mother to go back into seclusion?”

Father shook his head, scowling darkly. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. Some tradition it is right to leave behind, but we cannot abandon all that makes us what we are.”

Arati nodded. “Right! And what are we, Father?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Have we forgotten the proud tradition of the Maratha caste? Is that something to be left behind, or something to be cherished?”

“Well, I…”

Arati interrupted him before he could continue. “How long since a member of the Dharmaraj clan observed the traditional role of the Maratha caste and entered military service willingly?” She drew herself up straighter, with pride. “Maybe there are some traditions that we should reinstate, after all.”

Mother left off her mantra, and reaching out trembling hands toward her said, “But daughter… Will you not marry?”

Arati reached up and touched her neck, hesitating. Then she nodded. “I will, but not in any way that would please you, I think. I won’t wear the mangalsutra, but will put around my neck a string of seven cowries, and become a bride of the sword-father.”

Father’s eyes widened even further, which Arati hadn’t thought possible, and Mother looked as though she might faint. The practice of dedicating children to the gods had been abolished decades ago, deemed immoral, and the image of the urchin child forced to dance and sing for her divine “husband” while spreading her legs for any who visited the temple was one relegated to lurid historical dramas. But Arati thought that something sublime might be rescued from those abandoned practices, while leaving the less reputable aspects behind. She would become a Murli, devadasi to Khandoba, the divine sword-father, Siva incarnate and guardian of the country. Like Khandoba, she would drive away the evil that causes illness, dedicating her life to his service. Or the emperor’s service, she supposed, but it was all one to her. What was important was that she serve something larger than herself, larger than the immediate concerns of her family and friends, that she not lose herself and her dreams in the minute concerns of the everyday. What was important to Arati was that she fly.

Her parents, it was clear, did not agree.

“No,” Father said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I will not allow it. I forbid it.”

Arati’s mouth broke into a sad little smile. “But Father, I’m a grown woman, and can make my own decisions.” She shrugged, a gesture of helplessness at odds with her resolute decision. “Besides, it’s too late. I’ve already enlisted, and will be leaving in the morning for basic training.”

Father seemed frozen, mouth hanging partially open, a defeated expression on his face. Mother left off her mantra, stood, and straightened her sadi around her.

“No,” Mother said, with a final shake of her head. “You’ll stay here and marry and give us armloads of grandchildren, that’s all there is to it.” When Arati opened her mouth to explain that, no, she wouldn’t be doing any of those things, her mother wouldn’t hear it. She held up her hand, and refused to meet Arati’s eyes. “Now stop all this nonsense and come help me in the kitchen. We have your nephew’s jatakarma to prepare.”

Mother left the room, with Father still frozen as a statue on his seat. Arati sat for a moment, feeling the weight of her decision settle around her shoulders, then she stood and crossed the floor to stand before her father.

“Goodbye, Father.” She leaned down, and kissed him on his cheek, the stubble of his afternoon beard rasping her lips. “A girl couldn’t have asked for better parents.”

And with that she left the room, to finish packing her things.

The next day, by the time of her nephew’s jatakarma ceremony, as her sister’s husband ritualistically touched and smelled his new son, uttering benedictory mantras into his tiny ears, whispering wishes that his son might be endowed with long life and intelligence and happiness, Arati was already on her way. The cloud-flyer shuttle had lifted off from the Bhopal airstrip just after dawn, bound for the headquarters of the Interplanetary Fleet in Guangdong where she would begin her training.

Arati’s chest tightened, and she felt a stab of pain deep within, a sorrow made manifest. There was some part of her pained at the thought of leaving family and friends behind, abandoning everything in life she knew and loved. But a larger part knew that it was necessary and that the twinges she felt were merely the pangs of a new life being born.

The skies over Bhopal had been clear on takeoff, but as the shuttle arced over Bengali Bay, toward Annam and the Middle Kingdom beyond, the skies darkened with smothering clouds, lit from within by flashes of lightning. The shuttle pierced the clouds, and continued until it burst into the daylight beyond, with clear blue skies above and storm clouds roiling beneath. Somewhere, Arati knew, thunder pealed, but she was flying too fast and too high to hear it.

---

PREVIOUS CHAPTER: Hexagram 2
Pure Yin
Below Earth Above Earth
Here is the basic disposition of Earth. In the same manner, the noble man with his generous virtue carries everything.


NEXT CHAPTER: Hexagram 4
Juvenile Ignorance
Below Water Above Mountain
Below the Mountain emerges the Spring. In the same way, the noble man makes his actions resolute and nourishes his virtue.

Return to Index.

Chapter 3 of Three Unbroken by Chris Roberson. Copyright © 2007 Monkeybrain, Inc. For more action from the Celestial Empire don't miss The Dragon's Nine Sons.

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