Work Text:
The false Kishan could not hear the words of his accusers nor of his assumed family as he and his counterpart marched across the dunes. They had long left the oasis the village had become since the well-diggers struck water—since he and Lachchi found out she was pregnant. Always his thoughts were of Lachchi; her laughter more beautiful than the tinkling of bells, her smile more lovely than the rising sun. As the true Kishan whined about the heat, the fatigue, the roughness of the sand—the ghost's gaze was fixed in his own mind's eye, as if in prayer.
The sound of the shepherd's voice did not even rouse him from this trance, but when he was forced to look the old man in the eye, he found recognition. So much familiarity that he was forced back into the present moment. The shepherd was analyzing the lookalikes, and when the real Kishan jerked away from his calloused hands, the shepherd and the ghost's eyes met again. Instantly the ghost knew he was found out; the shepherd's scrutiny was clever, perhaps not entirely human. Fear rose in the ghost's heart. He awaited the inevitable accusation.
But the shepherd instead put the two of them to the test. Was it a cruel joke? Again they locked eyes—the old man's expression held a second set of inquiry, just for the false Kishan. Seems you've gotten yourself caught, illusionist… What now?
It was only a matter of time.
You spirits never think of the future. Always the here and the now with you lot. You'll end up meeting an early demise this way.
Kishan fretted with his father, about the coals, the herd, prestige, whatever it was. The ghost did not shy away from the shepherd's vision.
What could I do? I am in love. Lachchi's love is my only possession.
The shepherd furrowed his brow, but not disapprovingly. I suggest you muster up a plan quickly. True love means nothing to these businessmen; it will not give you an edge.
I've made peace with my fate. My Lachchi and Lunima are safe.
But to leave them alone again?
The ghost had no answer to this. He looked down at his feet.
The shepherd turned away to face the crowd. Kishan had proved himself (with the ghost's ample help) to be the rightful son and the legal husband. The ghost felt that after four years of deception, his human counterpart deserved at least that.
But now the shepherd was drinking his water skin dry, and after a long belch he gave the ghost a knowing look. As if to say, if your fate is so sealed, why not go with pride?
And then the illusionist was offered a test that no one but he could achieve. The chance to prove, once and for all, that only he truly loved Lachchi. At once his fear was gone, his resolve strengthened. He gave one final look to the shepherd, who gave him a smile. And into the water skin he went.
After great pomp and circumstance Sealing The Beast in the skin, the shepherd held it out for the stunned and meek Kishan. As the true husband took it with trembling hands, the old man's own steady hand slipped along the stopper, dislodging it ever so slightly.
In the darkness, the ghost felt a sliver of sunlight, a whiff of a breeze, and he knew he had placed his trust well. As Kishan flung the skin into the dunes, the ghost slipped through the loose stopper, looking like nothing but a gust of wind. He kissed the shepherd as he passed by, who gave a happy grunt in return.
Kishan had won the day. That devious spirit had been caught and his own prestige was restored. Most importantly, his father trusted him once more. And now they were headed back home. Back to his mother and sisters, his wife… and her child.
It twisted his stomach to be reminded of what was taken from him. But as the sun beat down, he looked at the sweating men walking beside him. He thought of that ghost, how differently he had walked from all of them. How he said nothing but asked after the health of Lachchi. He had not gotten angry, and seemed to have no concept of honor. Despite the ghost's lies, Kishan realized how honest it had made him. And it was the ghost who had proven his love for Lachchi—Kishan, for all his idealistic pining, could not have done it if he tried. His stomach twisted more.
"Father?"
Kishan's father turned, sweat beading his forehead. "Yes, my son?"
"I never asked… is Lachchi alright?"
His father waved halfheartedly. "I'm sure she's fine. The women and the midwife are taking care of her."
"I mean… after this deception. After four years—"
"It was a shock to us all, of course. But she will adjust."
Kishan looked down. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure," Kishan's father chuckled. "And anyway, why are you worried about your wife of all people?"
"Well, it's just that… she and the ghost… what will happen to the child?"
"Ah, well, that will be awkward, I'm sure. But your wife is young, she will bear you another child. A son this time, I hope."
This did not console Kishan.
His father continued. "If that child causes trouble, we can always send her away. In fact, I recommend it. It's a simple matter, but perhaps once she is weaned, of course."
"Send her away?"
Kishan's father sighed. "Son, I don't know why you trouble yourself with such petty issues. You and I have a lot of catching up to do! I've heard you have increased our wealth tenfold, no?"
Now Kishan felt incredibly sick. He would throw up if there were anything in his stomach. All he could think of as his father droned on and on was, is this what I am to become?
And then he passed out.
When Kishan came to the world was utterly silent. Time had seemed to stop around him. The camels were frozen mid-step, the grains of sand carried by the wind were stationary. They shone like glitter in the eternal afternoon sun. When he called out, his voice echoed as if he were in a cave.
"They cannot hear us," a strange voice declared. "But we can hear each other."
Kishan's head whipped around. He strained his eyes to find the source of the voice. "Who are you?"
"You know me. I am the love that lives in a woman's heart."
"... You!"
"Yes, me." The ghost materialized in Kishan's likeness under a withered tree next to the road. "I thought about taking you as soon as you began the journey back home, but after some consideration, I've come to realize your innocence in this situation."
"Take me? Innocence? Wh-what are you talking about?" Kishan stomped over to the ghost, who remained seated in the shade.
"Nothing can stop my love for Lachchi, Kishan."
"Lachchi? I think you mean my wife!"
"Yes, yes, the wife in law, of course." The ghost stood up to face him. "But is she your wife in love? In nature? No, no, you forfeited that the moment you did not take her in your arms on your wedding night."
Kishan stood, momentarily stunned by his mirror image. He soon regained a meek voice. "You… how did you…"
"Did you not think in four years my Lachchi would not confide in me?"
"You—your—" Kishan cursed and kicked at the sand. "Your trickery knows no bounds, does it? First you scheme your way into my marriage bed, and as if it were not enough, you then coax such secrets out of an innocent, unwitting girl!"
"You give your wife no credit, sir! Not one man in your family has given her the credit she so deserves! I may have schemed my way into your home, but for four years I have not once lied to my Lachchi. Not once."
Kishan did not answer at first. He stepped back. "You mean… you mean you told her what you were?"
"Of course, sir. Did you not see me prove my love? Have you no faith in my feat?"
"And… and she accepted you nonetheless?"
"Of her own accord. I gave her a choice, and she made one."
Kishan said nothing. He leaned against the tree to steady himself. Slowly he sat down and the ghost sat down next to him. He thought back to his father's words. How utterly useless they were now.
Lachchi's love, if made known publicly, would strip her of all honor and respect. He remembered incidents throughout his life, how his father spoke of fallen women, how every man he knew and looked up to spoke of them. And now he thought of how he treated his mother, his sisters. He loved his mother's cooking, but who was his mother? She was left alone by her husband time and time again and she bore the solitude with dignity. But what was in her heart? If someone like this ghost had come along, with nothing but love to offer, would she too have taken such a chance?
"Spirit," Kishan mumbled, not looking up, "I had planned to start anew with Lachchi the second I crossed the threshold. I had planned to make her mine, make up for the time we'd lost. I prepared for tears, I would have forgiven her for falling for your lies. And when the time comes I would have done my father's bidding, set out for god knows how long once again. Stuff my nose into my accounting books, just like he wanted. But now…"
Kishan stood up and stared at the frozen tableau before him. His father, the village elders. How old, how calloused, how empty they all seemed now.
"... Now you tell me that Lachchi's heart is someone else's."
The ghost came up behind Kishan. "My heart was hers far earlier."
Kishan chuckled softly, still looking at the men. "I wonder if any man can love the way you do, spirit. Certainly not these men. Perhaps not even me."
He turned to face the ghost and sighed. "I've spent my whole life in that house, no matter how far I travel. As has my father, as has his father. You may be a ghost, but I have never met one more alive than you." He stepped closer to the ghost, looking into eyes identical to his own. "Tell me, spirit, what is it like to live free of obligation? What does one care about if he is not engrossed in his pocketbook?"
The ghost smiled and closed his eyes, as if in prayer. "I was only free of obligation until I laid eyes on your Lachchi. Now my life's work is to bring her happiness, my only dream is to make her smile. When she is troubled I snap my fingers and banish the offending matter. Lachchi is my life's breath. I will never be parted from her."
Kishan could not help but be moved by the spirit's confession. "It's funny," he said, looking down, "the only time I ever spoke to my Lachchi, I brought tears to her eyes. No… no, she's not my Lachchi. She never was."
Kishan's eyes began to sting. "And to separate her from you… that would bring even more tears. Tears that may never end."
"What can I do, sir," the ghost said coldly. "You have proven yourself the rightful son, the lawful husband. Love means nothing to these people."
"You said… earlier you said you wanted to take me. What did you…?"
"I meant that I was going to seize your body, suppress your own soul, and return to my Lachchi and my Lunima in your flesh."
The ghost spoke with such frankness Kishan was taken aback. The imagery frightened him, but he found a resolve within him that was different from shallow pride.
"I told you, nothing can stop my love for Lachchi," the ghost continued.
"You would have forced me to witness my life but render me unable to live it?"
"If that is what it took…" The ghost seemed to grow sheepish at this admittance.
"But you took pity on my innocence, is that it?"
"Yes."
Kishan, like any normal person, did not wish to become a prisoner in his own body. But the sympathy he felt for the ghost and Lachchi was a formidable force. "Are you sure there is no other way…?"
"Not a way that would allow you your rightful home and family."
Kishan folded his arms and thought. He thought long and hard. He thought of the man he would have become under his father's wing. He thought of Lachchi's tears, her bright red henna and expectant eyes. And he thought of the ghost, the illusionist, the shapeshifter. Who could go where he pleased, do as he wished, but was now bonded, heart and soul, to Lachchi.
"If only I could be a spirit like you," he said finally. "I would finally see what the world has to offer if I had no duties to tie me down."
The ghost looked up; Kishan met his gaze. "I would readily give you my body if I could be like you. I want to see the world through your eyes, spirit."
He saw tears forming in the ghost's eyes. "It's possible, is it not?" he asked.
"To… to exchange forms? I… I'm not sure…"
"Please, I want to try." He took the ghost's hands. "And… I get the feeling that there is nothing left for me in that house."
The illusionist said nothing. He tried to shake his head, but Kishan stopped him. "It's true, isn't it?"
The ghost looked down.
"I only wish I had taken her in my arms when I had the chance," Kishan chuckled. His eyes stung again.
"If it is your wish," the ghost whispered, squeezing Kishan's hands, "I will happily give up my form, my power, my longevity, if it would allow me to be by Lachchi's side."
"My father would say it's a bad investment." Kishan looked back to his father. "And even now I have a hard time understanding you, spirit. But I think this would do me good, no?"
The ghost nodded, the tears streaming freely down his cheeks now. He let go of Kishan's hands and placed his palm instead on Kishan's abdomen. Kishan, following the ghost's lead, placed his own hand on his counterpart's abdomen in turn.
What happened next popped Kishan's ears, knocked the wind out of him, and made him see stars. But it was quick, like he had fallen out of a saddle.
When his vision cleared he felt lighter than air, his feet barely touched the ground. In front of him stood a man who looked just like him. The ghost? It must have been, but he was wearing a gray tunic and a yellow turban. Looking down, Kishan found he was now wearing a purple tunic and his head was noticeably turban-less.
"It—did it…?"
"It did," the non-ghost said, smiling wide.
Kishan pulled him into a warm embrace. "Thank you, brother, thank you!" he cried.
"No, brother, thank you!" The spirit exclaimed, weeping.
They held that tearful hug for a long time. When they finally pulled apart, Kishan looked around. "I don't know where to go first! What form should I take?"
The spirit patted his shoulder. "The world is yours, my friend. Follow the wind, if you want a head start."
"What was your favorite form to take?"
"Hmm. Perhaps the one I took when I first met Lachchi. A bluebird, it was."
"A bluebird, eh? Very good, it will serve me well if I meet my own Lachchi someday."
"I'm certain you will," the mortal ghost laughed.
"But first I must follow you home, make sure you reach Lachchi without trouble. After all, it will get dark soon."
The ghost tried to protest, say he would be alright, but Kishan put up his hand. "I insist! Don't forget, you're a human now! Life won't be so easy for you anymore."
"Well, what is life without love?"
"Indeed, brother, indeed. But I must ask for one favor before I go."
"Anything, my friend. Whatever you need, it is yours."
"When you arrive home as Kishan, apologize to my mother and sisters. Tell them father was wrong, that you never should have left. Promise them that you will never leave them again, and please, above all else, never let him send anyone away as long as he lives. Never again is a wife, mother, sister, or daughter to be lonely in your household. Do you understand me?"
"Completely, brother."
"Do anything in your power. Take care of them all. And take care of Lachchi. When the time is right, tell her what happened here, too. Tell her that I was a fool, and that I will never take a woman's love for granted again."
"Of course, I promise you. I swear on my daughter it will be done."
They hugged once more, and when they pulled apart Kishan felt the anticipation grow impossibly strong. So much to do!
"Well, we can't stand here all day, can we? I have the world to see, and I think you do too," Kishan said. "Tell me, spirit, how do I set time right again?"
"Oh, well, I would usually snap my fingers." The spirit demonstrated with a flourish.
Kishan was not so gifted. All the supernatural powers of this ghost could not cure his inability to snap. After a few tries, he gave up.
"Well, perhaps I'll clap my hands instead. So long, spirit!" And with a hearty clap, the wind picked back up, and Kishan found himself floating far up into the breeze.
The spirit woke up to water on his face, Kishan's father's sighs of relief, and various inquiries as to his condition. The spirit ignored it all, offering simple yes's and no's as needed to placate the old fools. After a short stop at the father's insistence, they set off once again. The spirit tried not to walk too fast.
After a few minutes of travel the spirit heard a trill. Looking up, the silhouette of a small bird flew across the golden sky. It flapped awkwardly, as if it had just learned to fly.
But fly it did.