Star Daughter(36)

And yet Padmini had needed five whole minutes to fuss over the end of Minal’s expertly folded sari, pleating and repleating it and smoothing it over her shoulder before steering Sheetal out the door to meet her fate. Apparently Minal wasn’t the only one with a crush.

Padmini took it upon herself to play tour guide, too, rattling off names and histories as they passed marble statue after marble statue. Minal ate it right up, offering so many opinions and smiles that Sheetal very nearly offered her a spoon. “I love a good sculpture”?

At least one of them fit in here.

While they bantered, she hung back, staring up at the torans hanging from either side of the ceiling, black stitched with silver constellations like shining coats-of-arms. The sidereal melody danced through her, high notes and chords of anticipation, invitation—even sadness as she thought of Dad.

The Pushya nakshatra’s toran flashed past. Sheetal stopped to study it. Her constellation.

Nani and Nana had only ever been characters in a story to her. She’d wished for them the same way she’d wished for Dad’s parents when other kids built gingerbread houses and sand rangoli with their grandparents at holidays or got spoiled with souvenirs at Disney World. But except for a visit to India when she was little and sporadic video calls, she didn’t really know Baa and Baapuji, either. The thing was, she’d gotten over it. She’d grown up.

And now she was supposed to waste time making small talk with strangers when she could be rushing back to Dad?

It was a relief when Padmini ushered Minal and her through a large scalloped archway straight into a chamber that could have been designed for midnight masquerade feasts, the kind where you might never know who else you dined with. Jeweled silver oil lamps dangled overhead at different heights, tossing rainbows over the ink-black walls and floor. Shimmering blue curtains lined the picture windows, which alternated with silver-framed paintings of figures from Hindu myths. In the middle of the room, an oversize crystal table had been set with steaming thalis and black linen napkins.

And there were people. So many people, all flawlessly gorgeous and impeccably dressed. All with hair like hers. All turning in their chairs as one, their various conversations going still.

Wait. Sheetal had been nervous enough when she thought it was just going to be Charumati and Nani and Nana. How was she supposed to say anything real to them with all these strangers listening?

Minal looked just as taken aback. Padmini must not have bothered to let her know, either.

Gazes swooped over them, evaluating. They varied from shocked to intrigued to faintly put off. But most of the stars watched with interest, silver light skimming over their brown skin and smoldering in their dark eyes.

Who cared what these people thought? After today, Sheetal would never have to see them again. Ignoring her sweating palms, she raised her head higher.

“Are you excited for the competition? I certainly am,” said a male star about her age. It took her a second to figure out he was addressing the female star next to him. That competition again. She turned away.

And caught sight of a stately old woman holding court at the head of the table. She wore a starry circlet over her white-streaked bun, and though her face was wrinkled, Sheetal could see she shared Charumati’s large eyes. Her delicate chin. Nani.

To her right sat an elderly man with broad shoulders, a regal bearing, and a matching starry diadem. Nana.

The starry melody whispered in Sheetal’s ears, ethereal as lace and replete with a yearning so pure it made her throat hurt.

Padmini moved between Sheetal and Minal. “Esteemed Matriarch, Esteemed Patriarch, Princess Charumati, permit me to present to you the Lady Sheetal and her mortal companion.”

Charumati, Nani, and Nana rose and joined their palms before their faces. “Aav, beti, aav. Be welcome.”

Sheetal’s grandparents. Nani and Nana. Her grandmother’s music rang out as surely as if Nani had opened her mouth to sing; it linked them more soundly than any bloodline.

It was their bloodline, Sheetal realized. It was the beat of her grandmother’s heart. Of her grandfather’s. Of her mother’s.

Of hers. Her own pulse rose and fell in time with the notes.

“Go to them,” Minal murmured.

Sheetal strode past the rows of watching faces to her grandmother. “Nani.”

Nani grasped Sheetal’s hands. Her skin was soft and thin as tissue, in contrast to the firm set of her mouth. She looked like an empress. “Dikri, my granddaughter, my dear one. You’ve come home to me.”

My dear one. The flame at Sheetal’s core kindled. The words sank into a fissure in her heart she hadn’t known existed, sealing it. You’ve come home.

This was so unfair. She’d long ago accepted Dad and Radhikafoi and Deepakfua were her family. All her family. Not this hall full of people with starlit eyes and astronomical expectations.

When Nani released her, Nana spoke. “Be welcome among us, beti. May you burn bold in the deepest night.”

Charumati silently touched Sheetal’s forehead. Sheetal’s shoulders dropped, then tensed right back up. She couldn’t ask for the blood in front of all these people.

“And who is your companion?” Nani asked as Minal came up alongside Sheetal.

Sheetal cautiously returned her grandmother’s smile. “My best friend, Minal.”

“From Earth,” Minal added helpfully, putting her palms together before her bowed head. “Namashkaar, Esteemed Matriarch. My mummy-papa send their pranaam.”