about him. But in her eyes he was always his brother reincarnated. Another form of invisibility, folks. Basically, Kirin Ahmed just doesn’t exist. Not to his family.
It was different at school. There he was the smart, shy kid. He wasn’t popular, but teachers liked him. His friends Justin and Anthony thought he was funny. People noticed when he spoke. They saw him when he came in the room.
Except for Callie Broadstreet. Can’t have everything in life, folks.
“What makes you sigh, lal ?” His grandmother leaned closer to peer at him, her dark eyes searching his face.
He shrugged. “Do you know the Broadstreets, Nani? They live on the third floor?”
“Ah. The ones with the pretty daughter.” She gave him a knowing glance. “I say hello to them as we go in and out, but I could not say I know them.” After a moment, she frowned, “The girl seems not happy, lal . Does she have some trouble?”
“Not that I know of.” Callie was quiet at school, even quieter than he was, but he thought she must be happy at home. Most every Sunday morning, he saw her with her parents as they left the building on their way to church. Her parents’ hands were always touching her, their heads bent toward her as though they couldn’t look at her enough.
He sighed again. “I should go upstairs and do my homework.” But he didn’t move.
Nani’s small hand smoothed his hair away from his face, and he let himself slump back on the sofa, his face turned against her shoulder.
“Nani?” he asked after a moment, his voice muffled by the silky folds of her sari.
“ Lal ?”
“Why is Mum the way she is? It’s been so long since Amir died. Why doesn’t she . . . get better ?”
He’d taken his mother’s constant grief and rage for granted when he was younger. He’d never known anything else. But the older he got, the weirder he realized his family was. When he saw the way his friends’ parents acted, even the ones who argued and threatened to get a divorce, he knew his own parents were broken in some strange way. Lately, he’d taken to reading anything he could find at the library that might explain his parents: fat, dull-covered books on psychology and philosophy, science and theology, with page after page packed dense with words. The books interested him but in an abstract kind of way. They made his picture of the world wider and deeper. But none of it really helped.
His grandmother’s fingers slid through his hair again and again, until he felt the tension in his head easing. After a moment, she said, “I will tell you a story, lal . It is partly true and partly make-believe, but it is my daughter’s story, I think. Come here, little Amir.” She tugged at Kirin until he shifted his legs onto the sofa, and his head dropped into her lap. He closed his eyes and listened to her voice, felt her warmth against his cheek, and wished she would call him by his own name just once.
“On a day long, long ago,” she said in the sing-song voice she used for storytelling, “Mother Durga, the self-sufficient one, she who is patient and invincible, whose compassion is fierce and unfailing, was in battle with the demon Raktabija, he whose name means ‘Blood Seed.’ Raktabija had claimed Mother Durga’s firstborn son as his own, but Durga was determined that the demon would not have the boy. She had resolved in her heart to fight Raktabija until he gave back her son.”
Nani’s voice grew slow and sad. “But some battles cannot be won. No matter how hard Durga fought, she could not destroy the demon, for each time a drop of his blood fell on the ground, it sprang up as his identical image, hundreds, thousands of demons, all fighting side by side, until the battlefield was crowded with demons—and they all looked exactly the same. Durga was confused, she was exhausted. She could not know which was the true demon. She did not know where she should fight. Her arms grew weak, and her heart turned faint. Life ebbed from
It was different at school. There he was the smart, shy kid. He wasn’t popular, but teachers liked him. His friends Justin and Anthony thought he was funny. People noticed when he spoke. They saw him when he came in the room.
Except for Callie Broadstreet. Can’t have everything in life, folks.
“What makes you sigh, lal ?” His grandmother leaned closer to peer at him, her dark eyes searching his face.
He shrugged. “Do you know the Broadstreets, Nani? They live on the third floor?”
“Ah. The ones with the pretty daughter.” She gave him a knowing glance. “I say hello to them as we go in and out, but I could not say I know them.” After a moment, she frowned, “The girl seems not happy, lal . Does she have some trouble?”
“Not that I know of.” Callie was quiet at school, even quieter than he was, but he thought she must be happy at home. Most every Sunday morning, he saw her with her parents as they left the building on their way to church. Her parents’ hands were always touching her, their heads bent toward her as though they couldn’t look at her enough.
He sighed again. “I should go upstairs and do my homework.” But he didn’t move.
Nani’s small hand smoothed his hair away from his face, and he let himself slump back on the sofa, his face turned against her shoulder.
“Nani?” he asked after a moment, his voice muffled by the silky folds of her sari.
“ Lal ?”
“Why is Mum the way she is? It’s been so long since Amir died. Why doesn’t she . . . get better ?”
He’d taken his mother’s constant grief and rage for granted when he was younger. He’d never known anything else. But the older he got, the weirder he realized his family was. When he saw the way his friends’ parents acted, even the ones who argued and threatened to get a divorce, he knew his own parents were broken in some strange way. Lately, he’d taken to reading anything he could find at the library that might explain his parents: fat, dull-covered books on psychology and philosophy, science and theology, with page after page packed dense with words. The books interested him but in an abstract kind of way. They made his picture of the world wider and deeper. But none of it really helped.
His grandmother’s fingers slid through his hair again and again, until he felt the tension in his head easing. After a moment, she said, “I will tell you a story, lal . It is partly true and partly make-believe, but it is my daughter’s story, I think. Come here, little Amir.” She tugged at Kirin until he shifted his legs onto the sofa, and his head dropped into her lap. He closed his eyes and listened to her voice, felt her warmth against his cheek, and wished she would call him by his own name just once.
“On a day long, long ago,” she said in the sing-song voice she used for storytelling, “Mother Durga, the self-sufficient one, she who is patient and invincible, whose compassion is fierce and unfailing, was in battle with the demon Raktabija, he whose name means ‘Blood Seed.’ Raktabija had claimed Mother Durga’s firstborn son as his own, but Durga was determined that the demon would not have the boy. She had resolved in her heart to fight Raktabija until he gave back her son.”
Nani’s voice grew slow and sad. “But some battles cannot be won. No matter how hard Durga fought, she could not destroy the demon, for each time a drop of his blood fell on the ground, it sprang up as his identical image, hundreds, thousands of demons, all fighting side by side, until the battlefield was crowded with demons—and they all looked exactly the same. Durga was confused, she was exhausted. She could not know which was the true demon. She did not know where she should fight. Her arms grew weak, and her heart turned faint. Life ebbed from
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