Breaking the Bow: Speculative Fiction Inspired by the Ramayana by Edited by Anil Menon and Vandana Singh Page B
Tags: Fiction, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Short Stories, USA, israel, cyberpunk, Anthology, Women, UK, Magic Realism, India, gender, Feminism, Thailand, Holland, sri lanka, Surreal, ramayana, abha dawesar, rana dasgupta, priya sarukkai chabria, tabish khair, kuzhali manickavel, mary anne mohanraj, manjula padmanabhan
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perfect face -straight nose, wide mouth, lovely, fish-shaped eyes that slant. She lines the eyes with coal dust.
“It won’t work.” her brother Vishravan sounds almost sorry.
She plays with the hair (her hair) and runs a finger down the lovely profile that will soon behers.
“It will.”
His own workshop is as far away from hers as possible. Meenakshi can do a thousand things that he cannot. She can imitate the waxy texture of the surface of a leaf. She can make small birds that fly, look and sound exactly like the real thing. Only Meenakshi could make herself a body fit for a god. If he asked her to, she could fill the city’s gardens with trees and flowersand birds, make of it the place he dreamt of when he begged for ten years for a kingdom of his own. He does not ask.
Vishravan thinks too often about the frenzied sea turned white and the huge, pliant, living rope so strange under his hands. He has brooded for so long on that ancient story of a contract that was broken that sometimes he believes he was there himself. He knows how proud theDaityas were at being approached, how strange it was to be around these beings with whom they werenow equals. The twinge of triumph at being needed, even if only to make up the numbers. And then, when it came to the time to divide the fruits of that great labour, finding out that the decision had been made without them. He doesn’t remember how the Gods looked at him, but he remembers that theylied.
They were promised nectar and given poison. It seeped into them and leached away what powers they had. They crept into the dark corners of the world (often forests, out of some perverse need for revenge) and nursed their wounds. Where they lived nothing would grow. Daityas turn the grass brown when they stand for too long, and animals flee from them as if their breath was toxic. But theycan still make things.
Meenakshi’s greatest creations are the ones that look the most real. Vishravan will have no truck with the real. He will let her have her workshop but everything on the surface of the city he prayed for for so long must look made.
He is in his sister’s workshop when Meenakshi leaves. He is still there when she brings back her broken body. Even now it is so lifelikethat he can barely look at it. There is a gaping hole where the nose was; one ear still dangles on a tag of flesh and her skin is melted and corroded as if someone had thrown acid at her. His sister is shaken and hurt and also furious. As he comforts her he plays with her beautiful hair and notices how the light falls upon it. The god in the forest must have touched it. He prefers not to think aboutthis.
Mythili’s husband sits under a tree. When he returned from his hunting he wore smears of demon blood and an expression of distaste. Asked where he had been, all he would say was “protecting you” before cleaning himself in the river and sitting down to meditate.
The low, rumbling note that comes from his throat is the oldest thing in the universe. Every living thing in the forestfeels it stirring within them when they hear it. What must it be like to be at variance with that sound, as is the creature he has defended her against today? What must it be like to be forever, fundamentally discordant?
The thing the demon builds in his forge bears little resemblance to an actual deer. It is unashamedly fabricated (as if anyone could be taken in by a gold deer)—all polishedgears and gleaming metals. But its gait is rather lovely and the bowing of its neck as graceful as that of any real animal. It is very beautiful.
“Capture it for me”.
Mythili has never ordered her husband to do anything before. She is prepared to argue her case (it is the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen) but he is already off chasing it through the trees.
Her captor seemsstrangely uninterested in her. He is a huge man dressed entirely in bronze armour. She cannot see his face. She thinks that he must be
“It won’t work.” her brother Vishravan sounds almost sorry.
She plays with the hair (her hair) and runs a finger down the lovely profile that will soon behers.
“It will.”
His own workshop is as far away from hers as possible. Meenakshi can do a thousand things that he cannot. She can imitate the waxy texture of the surface of a leaf. She can make small birds that fly, look and sound exactly like the real thing. Only Meenakshi could make herself a body fit for a god. If he asked her to, she could fill the city’s gardens with trees and flowersand birds, make of it the place he dreamt of when he begged for ten years for a kingdom of his own. He does not ask.
Vishravan thinks too often about the frenzied sea turned white and the huge, pliant, living rope so strange under his hands. He has brooded for so long on that ancient story of a contract that was broken that sometimes he believes he was there himself. He knows how proud theDaityas were at being approached, how strange it was to be around these beings with whom they werenow equals. The twinge of triumph at being needed, even if only to make up the numbers. And then, when it came to the time to divide the fruits of that great labour, finding out that the decision had been made without them. He doesn’t remember how the Gods looked at him, but he remembers that theylied.
They were promised nectar and given poison. It seeped into them and leached away what powers they had. They crept into the dark corners of the world (often forests, out of some perverse need for revenge) and nursed their wounds. Where they lived nothing would grow. Daityas turn the grass brown when they stand for too long, and animals flee from them as if their breath was toxic. But theycan still make things.
Meenakshi’s greatest creations are the ones that look the most real. Vishravan will have no truck with the real. He will let her have her workshop but everything on the surface of the city he prayed for for so long must look made.
He is in his sister’s workshop when Meenakshi leaves. He is still there when she brings back her broken body. Even now it is so lifelikethat he can barely look at it. There is a gaping hole where the nose was; one ear still dangles on a tag of flesh and her skin is melted and corroded as if someone had thrown acid at her. His sister is shaken and hurt and also furious. As he comforts her he plays with her beautiful hair and notices how the light falls upon it. The god in the forest must have touched it. He prefers not to think aboutthis.
Mythili’s husband sits under a tree. When he returned from his hunting he wore smears of demon blood and an expression of distaste. Asked where he had been, all he would say was “protecting you” before cleaning himself in the river and sitting down to meditate.
The low, rumbling note that comes from his throat is the oldest thing in the universe. Every living thing in the forestfeels it stirring within them when they hear it. What must it be like to be at variance with that sound, as is the creature he has defended her against today? What must it be like to be forever, fundamentally discordant?
The thing the demon builds in his forge bears little resemblance to an actual deer. It is unashamedly fabricated (as if anyone could be taken in by a gold deer)—all polishedgears and gleaming metals. But its gait is rather lovely and the bowing of its neck as graceful as that of any real animal. It is very beautiful.
“Capture it for me”.
Mythili has never ordered her husband to do anything before. She is prepared to argue her case (it is the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen) but he is already off chasing it through the trees.
Her captor seemsstrangely uninterested in her. He is a huge man dressed entirely in bronze armour. She cannot see his face. She thinks that he must be
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