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Vi huffed out a short, impatient breath before rolling onto her stomach. Her gaze fell to the open jharoka (window), something in her chest tugging her towards the lush green landscape, the smell of the apricot trees wafting through. It would be so easy to climb out of her window and jump onto the branches. Vander would certainly enjoy making halwa (pudding) for their dessert.
She huffed again. The memory of her adoptive father scolding her for her last tumble rang in her ears.
It wasn’t her fault that those stupid khussas (slippers) took so long to get used to. In her village, everyone wore simple, practical jutis (shoes), and that was that. It wasn’t until her family was forcefully sent to these invaders that she was forced into uncomfortable footwear that was wholly useless at doing anything except wandering around the palace doing her chores.
But her chores were already complete. Claggor was helping Vander in the kitchens, Mylo was insufferable, and Powder and Ekko had practically been adopted by the royal architect. Vi didn’t exactly resent her little siblings for following Jayce around at any given opportunity, but the fifteen-year-old didn’t appreciate being left to rot in her own boredom.
Normally, she would’ve attempted to sneak into the soldiers’ training grounds, but without Caitlyn at her side, she was often laughed away. While General Grayson was open to it, the ranks were filled with too many snitches. Still, Vi always admired the woman for being so strong. Maybe if Vi had been more like her, she would’ve been able to protect her people, her siblings, everyone. She clenched her fists, her bruised knuckles turning white as she practised the breathing exercises Vander had taught her.
She was hard-pressed to admit it, but at times like these, she missed Caitlyn. Caitlyn, who got to learn to fight. Caitlyn, who got to learn to ride a horse. Caitlyn, who, at the moment, was in yet another meeting of the war council.
It was an odd feeling. Sometimes, Vi wanted nothing more than to run around, playing kabbadi (tag) with the blue-eyed prince. Sometimes, Vi felt so angry and bitter at the unfairness of it all that she didn’t talk to Caitlyn for days.
“Gira mohan malla garondey ke band se…” A lilting vibrato broke Vi out of her very serious and very important contemplation. She sat up, her head tilting in curiosity as she peeked out of the window. In the distance, she could see the courtyard of the palace kotha (courtesan's residence), and in it, small specks of the courtesans who were singing, interspersed with felicitous laughter.
Vi slid off her charpayi (bed), kicking her khussas (slippers) to the side before straightening her kurta (tunic) and wandering outside. The closer she got to the courtyard, the more her heart fluttered at the sounds of pure, unadulterated joy. She crept behind a bush, watching two of the dancers circle each other, their bodies moving in a fluid performance. It wasn’t quite like the kathak (classical dance) she had seen at mehfils (celebrations). This was rawer, freer, and impulsive.
The song ended, and the performers dissolved into giggles. Vi bit her lip, craning her neck to get a better view. Fate must’ve had it out for her because she grasped onto a branch too hard, causing it to break with a very audible crack.
The courtesans froze, and Vi winced. Creeping on them couldn’t possibly look good.
“Who’s there? Come out here, right now," a commanding voice called out.
Vi shuffled, climbing through the brush until she tumbled out on the other side. She scowled, picking a twig out of her shorn hair, although that was mostly to avoid facing scrutiny.
“What were you doing in there, bacha (child)?” Vi glanced up, blinking owlishly at the gorgeous woman who had spoken. She was lying on a chaddar, in a deep green anarkali, her thick tresses falling about her face as the smoke from her hookah drifted about her face. “You know, not even the Maharaani (Queen) intrudes upon our privacy, don’t you?”
Vi’s face turned red. “I wasn’t trying to intrude,” she muttered, fisting her pyjama tightly. “I just heard the music and…”
“Ah, and it called to you, I suppose,” the woman continued. She beckoned Vi over, pushing her skirt out of the way to make room for Vi. “Don’t you belong to that Manipuri family? Does that mean you know the dance?”
Vi peered up at the woman suspiciously. She wasn’t sure why she was being asked all these questions, but in her experience, adults who wanted to know too much about her usually had ulterior motives.
The woman laughed, blowing a puff of smoke directly into Vi’s face. Vi’s eyes watered, but she bravely kept them open.
“Distrustful child. I suppose I can respect that,” she mused, crooking a finger at one of the male dancers. “This is Sanamahi. He’s from Manipur, too. And I’m Lalita, but everyone calls me Bibi. You can as well.”
Vi nodded tersely, her fist loosening just a bit.
“I was asking you because you seemed so interested in Mahi’s dance,” Bibi explained patiently. “His style of kathak (dance) is not like the others here, but that’s what makes him special. Perhaps you would like to learn too.”
“Me?” Vi squeaked out. “I’m not a tawaif (courtesan), though. I can’t play or sing. The only poetry I write is to make fun of my family. My calligraphy and painting skills are terrible, and Vander says I have a difficult temper.”
The courtyard erupted into another round of amused chortles. Vi could feel that familiar heat rising again.
“Enough,” Bibi commanded, dismissing the rest of the courtesans with a sharp tilt of her head. “Don’t take their laughter as mockery, I think they just find you rather naive.”
Vi wanted to protest that she was mature enough to take care of her siblings, but Bibi kept going.
“Art isn’t reserved for the cool-tempered. Art is for the passionate individual to channel their fire into a work of divine beauty. Similarly, a tawaif (courtesan) isn’t just a dancing reflection upon a lake with a few clever tricks up their sleeve. Tawaifs (courtesans) hold power. They shape society. Everyone looks to us to define culture, fashion, and music because we are the living embodiment of kala (art).”
Vi swallowed, her mouth feeling dry all of a sudden. Her fingers trembled as she finally let her eyes wander over the sitar.
“It won’t be easy. Most performers start much younger than you. However, you certainly have some influences in your corner. I gather the shehzada (prince) is rather taken with you.”
Vi whipped her head around, catching the knowing smirk on Bibi’s face. “What?”
“Oh, nothing,” Bibi hummed, taking another puff of her pipe. “Just that when you hold a position like that, you don’t always have to force yourself into a box. I would argue that learning kathak (classical dance) will help you in your sparring sessions.”
“You’ve seen me spar?”
“You’re not the only snoop in this palace.”
There was a comfortable pause.
“Will they try to stop me?” Vi asked hesitantly. She wasn’t sure which “they” she was referring to. The courtiers, the royal family, the advisors. It all felt the same to her.
“When you’ve given as much as I have to a system, the system tends to owe you a few favours back,” Bibi said, and Vi wondered if everything the Maalkin (Madame) said sounded so sage.
“You just leave it with me,” Bibi promised with a determined glint in her eye.
Vi spent the next few weeks using whatever free time she got while Caitlyn was away on her princely duties with Bibi and her teachers. It was easy in some ways. Sitting in on Caitlyn’s lessons meant that she knew many elements of history, literature, and etiquette, even if she had never practised them before now. Her Urdu had also impressed her ustaad (tutor), though she had a long way to go before she could be called lyrically fluent.
It was perhaps the music lessons Vi enjoyed most. Bibi had been right; learning the complicated footwork of kathak (dance) had allowed Vi to grow faster and more unpredictable in her movements. She had gone from beating Caitlyn half the time to beating her most of the time, much to the young prince’s adorable grousing. The sitar had resulted in thick calluses, but it was nothing Vi wasn’t already used to from climbing and getting into fights.
All in all, she felt oddly at home in her new role.
Caitlyn found her, one evening, plucking away at a new song on the sitar she had borrowed from Bibi.
“You’re quite good at that,” the prince remarked, paused at the threshold of Vi’s room.
Vi looked up, her lips cracking into a relaxed grin. “Stop waiting for my permission and come in.”
Caitlyn kicked off her khussas (slippers), padding over to Vi before settling in next to her. “That’s a paradoxical sentence.”
“You’re a paradoxical sentence.”
“That doesn’t even make sense!”
Vi didn’t bother to reply, instead choosing to go back to her song. She was learning to ignore Caitlyn’s witticisms more and more as the days went by. The prince did get so cute and pouty about it.
“What’s that?” Caitlyn asked, poking at the silver box pushed into the corner of Vi’s chaarpayi (bed).
“Hm?” Vi glanced up. “Oh, that’s a paandaan (betel nut box). One of the tawaifs (courtesans) was gifted a new one from her saahib (sponsor), so she gave me her old one. It’s pretty.”
“You deserve better than a used paandaan (box).” Caitlyn wrinkled her nose as if the mere idea of a hand-me-down was the stuff of nightmares.
“And who’s going to gift me a new one? It’s not like I have a saahib (sponsor) to lavish me with gifts,” Vi replied, chuckling in amusement. “No, I’m afraid a common girl like me will have to wait some time for that. Long after my debut.”
Caitlyn became deathly quiet, her eyes growing oddly sharper. “What if you didn’t have to wait for a saahub (sponsor)?”
Vi’s heartbeat grew faster, and her hands became far too clammy to keep holding onto the sitar, so she put it to the side and angled her body. Caitlyn couldn’t possibly be suggesting what Vi thought she was suggesting.
“You’re the most handsome girl in the palace,” Caitlyn declared boldly, puffing her chest out. “I think you might be the greatest beauty in the entire empire. You’re smart, and funny, and you’re never afraid to treat me like a real person. I-I could make you happy, Vi. I swear I will. If I don’t, then… then I’ll give all this up and disappear into the desert. Write my silly, lovelorn musings onto the trees like Qays did.”
“You’re very forward,” Vi muttered, looking down at her lap as the prickle of a soft flush spread across her cheeks.
She almost wanted to shove Caitlyn out. She was worlds away from the Mughals, and such an intense confession felt confusingly overwhelming.
“When you hold a position like that, you don’t always have to force yourself into a box.”
Vi took a deep breath. She was brave and strong, just like Caitlyn was. Forget those old cranks, she thought. If Caitlyn and her family were by her side, then she could do anything.
She glanced up at Caitlyn, nodding shyly, and when Caitlyn shot back a winning grin with those gapped teeth, Vi suddenly felt like she was breathing in pure ecstasy.
“It’s settled then,” the prince declared, pushing the lid of the paandaan (betel box) open. Caitlyn pulled out a leaf, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she gingerly smeared gulkand (rose preserve) onto it. When she held up the clumsily folded treat, Vi wanted to cry.
“It’s settled,” Vi parroted mid-reverie, her mouth opening to accept Caitlyn’s act of love.