You dare not tell me that the boon I granted is not the one you wished for.

No, you’re too well-trained to ever think such a thing. Pious, god-fearing Janaki. Janaki, the fourth child, the one who came after a string of sisters. Janaki the granddaughter, the wife, the daughter-in-law.

You don’t let yourself think this even when your palms smart from the rope burns. Burns you shouldn’t have because having them means you came to me. To my ratha yatra, standing amongst the thousands who showed up just for a glimpse of me.

In fact, you try to forget the moment when I passed you on my chariot, turning to see you and the glint of the rufous dot on your forehead. Your pottu. You also try to forget the moment my blessing floated towards you. The golden pink light that, instead of mesmerising, singed its way in. A needle-thin poker straight into your mind. It felt as if your brain was being cauterised. Then, the light carved an intentional path down to your heart, making it rumble on contact like an imploding concrete ball. Your heart fissured and through the cracks grew thorns of desire. The underside of your tongue became...

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