when she left? What terrible crime could she have committed for our father to banish her at that tender age? And why did she want to speak with me, alone? Perhaps finally I'd have in her what I'd so longed for: a friend with whom to whisper and laugh about silly things, to exchange ornaments and confidences, to tell my secrets— even that of the spirits' prophecy, which I held inside me like a dark, jagged rock.
Sikhandi walked with a panther grace, light and assured on the balls of his feet. Yes, his . What I'd interpreted as Dhai Ma's expression of disapproval was the literal truth: Sikhandi, who was born a woman, was now a man! Clearly, he wished there to be no misunderstanding about this: he was clothed only in a white cotton dhoti,his wiry upper body bare, his nipples flat and burnished as copper coins. He carried a bow, which he leaned against the wall before approaching me. His cheekbones were like knives. His almond-shaped eyes gave him a foreignness that was not unattractive. Around his neck hung a garland of white lotuses.
Silently he put out his hands to touch my cheeks. I hesitated— he was a stranger, after all—but then I allowed it. His fingers were slim, like a woman's, and callused from stringing a bow. A shiver went through me as they grazed my face. I noticed that we were the same height, and somehow this consoled me for the loss of the sister he was supposed to be.
He smiled past the shadows in his almond eyes. He stood on tiptoe to kiss my forehead. “Little sister,” he said. “I thank you from the depth of my soul for what you'll do for me.”
Sikhandi stayed with me for a day and a night, and in that time he told me his story.
He said: Have you heard the fable of the donkey that wrapped himself in a lion's hide so the other animals would fear him? Or of the wolf that hid under sheepskin so he could mingle undetected with his prey? I feel like both sometimes. A fake—or a hidden menace.
No, I didn't pray to the gods to be changed. I'd lost faith in them a lifetime ago. This time I invoked a yaksha. He appeared in the sky with his burning demon sword. When he heard what I wanted, he laughed and plunged it into me. The pain was unbearable. I fainted. When I awoke, I was a man. And yet not completely so, for though my form was changed, inside me I remembered how women thought and what they longed for.
I had to be a man, because only a man can do what I must accomplish—kill the greatest warrior of our time.
Yes, someone greater even than Drona.
His name is Bheeshma the terrible. He is guardian of Hastinapur and granduncle to that prince, Arjun, who defeated our father, and Drona's friend. Tangled indeed is the web of this world!
This garland? You've noticed it doesn't fade? I've worn it for twelve years now. I was six when I found it hanging on the palace gate and placed it around my neck. Our father cried, What have you done, you foolish, unlucky girl! But I hadn't taken it in childish fancy, as he supposed, and nothing he did would make me put it back. Finally he banished me so that the ill luck rising from my action wouldn't haunt his house.
Oh, he and I are father and child indeed! We both live for vengeance.
When I wore the garland, my previous life, which I had remembered only in glimpses, fell upon me like a flood.
First I remembered my death upon a pyre: flesh melting, eyelids burnt away, the skull bursting. And through it all: my impatience to be gone. Because without death there is no rebirth, and without rebirth I could not kill Bheeshma.
The god Shiva himself had promised me that in my next life I would kill him whom no man had defeated before.
My name? In that body I was Amba, the princess of Kasi, the rejected one.
Very well, the story from the beginning, then. We three sisters, princesses of Kasi, were to marry. My father arranged a swayamvar, inviting all the kings of the land, so that we could choose our husbands. I already knew the man I wanted: King Salva, who
Sikhandi walked with a panther grace, light and assured on the balls of his feet. Yes, his . What I'd interpreted as Dhai Ma's expression of disapproval was the literal truth: Sikhandi, who was born a woman, was now a man! Clearly, he wished there to be no misunderstanding about this: he was clothed only in a white cotton dhoti,his wiry upper body bare, his nipples flat and burnished as copper coins. He carried a bow, which he leaned against the wall before approaching me. His cheekbones were like knives. His almond-shaped eyes gave him a foreignness that was not unattractive. Around his neck hung a garland of white lotuses.
Silently he put out his hands to touch my cheeks. I hesitated— he was a stranger, after all—but then I allowed it. His fingers were slim, like a woman's, and callused from stringing a bow. A shiver went through me as they grazed my face. I noticed that we were the same height, and somehow this consoled me for the loss of the sister he was supposed to be.
He smiled past the shadows in his almond eyes. He stood on tiptoe to kiss my forehead. “Little sister,” he said. “I thank you from the depth of my soul for what you'll do for me.”
Sikhandi stayed with me for a day and a night, and in that time he told me his story.
He said: Have you heard the fable of the donkey that wrapped himself in a lion's hide so the other animals would fear him? Or of the wolf that hid under sheepskin so he could mingle undetected with his prey? I feel like both sometimes. A fake—or a hidden menace.
No, I didn't pray to the gods to be changed. I'd lost faith in them a lifetime ago. This time I invoked a yaksha. He appeared in the sky with his burning demon sword. When he heard what I wanted, he laughed and plunged it into me. The pain was unbearable. I fainted. When I awoke, I was a man. And yet not completely so, for though my form was changed, inside me I remembered how women thought and what they longed for.
I had to be a man, because only a man can do what I must accomplish—kill the greatest warrior of our time.
Yes, someone greater even than Drona.
His name is Bheeshma the terrible. He is guardian of Hastinapur and granduncle to that prince, Arjun, who defeated our father, and Drona's friend. Tangled indeed is the web of this world!
This garland? You've noticed it doesn't fade? I've worn it for twelve years now. I was six when I found it hanging on the palace gate and placed it around my neck. Our father cried, What have you done, you foolish, unlucky girl! But I hadn't taken it in childish fancy, as he supposed, and nothing he did would make me put it back. Finally he banished me so that the ill luck rising from my action wouldn't haunt his house.
Oh, he and I are father and child indeed! We both live for vengeance.
When I wore the garland, my previous life, which I had remembered only in glimpses, fell upon me like a flood.
First I remembered my death upon a pyre: flesh melting, eyelids burnt away, the skull bursting. And through it all: my impatience to be gone. Because without death there is no rebirth, and without rebirth I could not kill Bheeshma.
The god Shiva himself had promised me that in my next life I would kill him whom no man had defeated before.
My name? In that body I was Amba, the princess of Kasi, the rejected one.
Very well, the story from the beginning, then. We three sisters, princesses of Kasi, were to marry. My father arranged a swayamvar, inviting all the kings of the land, so that we could choose our husbands. I already knew the man I wanted: King Salva, who
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