Star Daughter(29)

Part Two


Stars got tangled in her hair whenever she played in the sky.

—LAINI TAYLOR





“Once, a very long time ago, a naga maiden from the subterranean world journeyed to the heavenly realm. She had decided she would dance among the deities,” my mother told me, her tone deep and rich with metaphor. It was a storyteller’s voice. She didn’t need to be quiet; everyone was sleeping at this late hour. The two of us stood there in the shadowed field, reigning queen and princess of the whole hushed world. It belonged to us, only to us.

I twirled through the slumbering daisies and dandelions, pretending they were characters in the story. The stars laughed overhead, blazing bright against the velvet cape of the night. I could hear their whispers, and the full moon winked at me.

“She dined with the gods,” my mother continued, weaving herself a crown of daisies, “and they showered her with divine blossoms in a rainbow of colors. The apsaras found her so fetching that they danced with her as one of their own. The gandharvas played their finest music so she might always be in motion. The kinnaras requested her every story of earthly existence. Even the stars prevailed on her never to leave, for it pleased them greatly to shine down upon her face. It seemed as though the nagini had found her true place, her home.

“Countless years passed in this way, marked only by festivities and feasts. But time is the trickster that changes all things, and the novelty of the dancing nagini grew as thin and worn as an old sari.” My mother curved her hands like a cup, and a length of luminous fabric formed there, fraying as I watched. Her face glowed in its radiance. She tore the fabric in two and tossed the pieces into the night, where they floated like fireflies before dissipating.

“The gods did not ask for our maiden as they once had, instead seeking out new pastimes. The apsaras left her out of their performances, and the kinnaras no longer requested tale after tale. Soon the maiden danced alone. Even the myriad stars, constant though she had thought them, had turned their lantern light elsewhere. Only a smattering remained by her side, but their presence failed to soothe the maiden’s lonely heart, which ached for her jeweled cavern by the blue-green sea, for the family she had not seen in many cycles.”

“But why was she sad?” I interrupted. I hated this part of the story. “She should have lots of adventures! That’s what I would do.”

My mother looked at me for a long time. “It is a hardship to be away from those you love, Sheetal.”

I thought about this. “Oh.”

My mother bent to stroke a dandelion bud. At her touch, it bloomed like an evening primrose. “Abandoned and isolated, the maiden took her leave of the skies. Upon her departure, those few stars who loved her still dropped one by one into her hair and became entangled there. Ever after, deep beneath the earth where she roamed with her family and friends, the maiden wore the cosmos like a glowing crown.

“Only when she finally passed into the next life did the stars come loose. In their grief, they strewed themselves throughout the caverns to illuminate the deceased maiden’s footsteps, so she would always be remembered. But a new generation came, and then another, and yet another, until the maiden and the stars, too, were forgotten in the subterranean darkness. Their light scattered, their hearts stilled, and they slowly transformed to stone.” My mother adjusted her daisy crown. “And that, my daughter, is how diamonds came to be.”

“Again, Mommy!” I cried, bouncing up and down. “Again! Tell me again.”

She swept me up into her arms, her eyes burning from within. I nestled into the mass of silver waves that hung to her knees—the thick, silky mane that rebuffed all dye, gleaming against the smooth brown of her skin. “Tomorrow,” she said, carrying me into the house. “Tonight, little ones should sleep soundly, knowing their aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins are watching over them.”

Though I wriggled hard in protest, she put me to bed and turned out the light. I could still see the moon peeking through the curtains until she drew them closed. Without his round face to encourage me, I started to yawn.

Then she left my room. I heard the front door open. My eyes were falling shut, but I knew where she was going. Back outside to talk to the sky, the way she did every night.

The next morning, I begged for the story again, but my father only held up the serving bowl of egg salad he’d just made. “We’re late for the cookout. The neighbors wanted us to help set up, remember?”

The conspiratorial smile on my mother’s face clouded over. “Must we? You know I have nothing to say to them. Nor they to me.”

“Oh, please, Mommy, please!” I said, hopping from foot to foot. “Mr. Sanchez always makes the best ice cream!”

She looked from my father to me, and I sensed her resolution wavering. She was like a peacock among pigeons at these events—in our world—and we all knew it, but she could never tell us no.

“I know they’re not the most exciting crowd,” my father said, “but we did say we’d go. What if we just put in an appearance? An hour, tops. What do you say, Charu jaan? For the best ice cream?”

“Only an hour,” my mother agreed, “during which I will pretend to understand school administration and home equity.” She knelt before me with a smile. “And then I will tell you the story of diamonds, and we will make moon mandalas and pick flowers and sing.” She stood and took the bowl from my father’s grasp. “And later you and I will cook a proper meal. What is this ‘egg salad’ business?”