The Age of Shiva Read Free

lies on top of me, I can hear it rustling against my skin. Perhaps you heard it as well from inside me, with your ear pressed to the wall of my belly.
    Soon your father will stop singing in the living room. He will forget the custard and leave the dishes where they are. He will stretch back in his chair and stare at the ceiling, his mouth open. His eyes will close—he will snore, and think he is still awake.
    I will smooth out the sheets on his bed next to mine. I will spread out your blanket and lay you on his empty bed. With my cheek on my pillow, I will watch you sleep beside me. My eyes will close following the rise and fall of your chest.
    Sometime before dawn your father will be awakened by the heat. He will pull off his shirt and clear the magazines off the sofa. He will stretch himself out and fold up his shirt for a pillow. He will sleep with the naag hugged to his body.
    You will wake, too, and cry to be fed. My eyes will open, and I will put you to my breast. Afterwards, I will lay you down again on your father’s bed. I will try to get some more sleep before the night ends.
    In the morning, I will boil the milk delivered by the ganga. I will throw away the pickle and put the dishes in the basin. I will make no noise, and your father will not awaken.
    I will look at your father and think of you. I will wonder if you will have his voice, sing as well. I will imagine your body growing, your muscles firming. The naag beginning to sprout upon your chest too.

chapter two
    S OMEHOW, I ALWAYS RETURN TO THAT 1955 REPUBLIC DAY EVE IN DELHI when I first saw your father. I wonder what my life would have been if I hadn’t gone to the concert with Roopa. If I had not allowed her to drag me backstage. If I had not heard your father say those words. “Your sister is almost as pretty as you are.” Every time I asked him afterwards, he said he couldn’t remember which one of us he meant.
    When did the idea first start germinating in my brain? Was it when I saw Roopa whistle at him during the show? When I saw the look that came on her face backstage? “Your sister is almost as pretty as you are.” I had never heard anyone say that before to me. Neither had Roopa, to her.
    Or was it after the contest, when we all went to the market at Chandni Chowk to stand on the street and eat fruit mix from one of the century-old shops? When Roopa kept insisting on feeding Dev herself, picking up the chunks of spice-doused banana and sweet potato with her toothpick and ostentatiously transporting them to his mouth? All around us, eyes widened at her brazenness, foreheads rumpled in disapproval, voices chittered at the shamelessness of youth. “Should I sprinkle on more chili powder?” Roopa asked Dev, and I could see the flush on her face from the looks she pretended not to notice.
    â€œMeera doesn’t like pineapple,” Dev said, nodding at the leaf spread out on my palm, which was bare except for the small yellow pyramid of pineapple I had arranged on the side with my toothpick. He was smiling at me, and as I watched, his mouth opened in expectation of the next morsel from Roopa. What would happen if I speared a piece from my pyramid and raised it to his lips? Would I also be able to bask in the heat of the scandalized stares?
    â€œShe’s always been the fussy one in the family,” Roopa declared, annoyed that Dev’s attention had strayed. She rummaged around in her fruit for a pineapple chunk to pop into his mouth and glared at me when she couldn’t find one. “If you weren’t going to eat it, why didn’t you tell the man no pineapple, instead of erecting the Taj Mahal on your leaf with everyone’s share?”
    â€œI was saving it for the end,” I said, picking up a piece and chewing it with relish for Roopa’s benefit. “It’s very sweet,” I told her, then added cheekily, “Should I give you some? For Dev?”
    Roopa’s eyes