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thewidewideworldThe first thing I noticed about the young man we came to call Kokila were his clothes. Not his sun-gold hair or his unreadable eyes, but his clothes.
There was nothing unusual about them. They were the clothes of any city dweller of Kollam; simple and without much ornamentation. But too clean, too new. Too ordinary. Even his sandals were so new the straps still held their stiffness, leaving red marks where they chaffed his slender ankles.
They were workman’s clothes. And this delicate creature was no workman. Nor a native of Kollam. Not with hair and skin so pale.
Kollam is one of the busiest ports for many days travel, a great and bustling city. People come here from every direction, and every harbour. And during the festival, even more so. The dress of many lands can be seen on every street, a dozen languages heard on every corner.
And yet he wore nothing that would give him a nation or identity. Only the long golden hair he kept bound and braided tight to his neck to wonder at. This was a man hiding his nature – from himself or others I didn’t know.
I watched him move towards us, drawn by the music we played as many others were. Three days before the festival’s official start, the streets were already crowding. Small as he was, he slipped between the listeners, half hidden behind a pack of grandmothers whose bent backs he could see over.
From the back of our group, my dhadd drum across my knee, I watched him. The music delighted him; I could see it in the smile that crept across his face, the way his fingers danced against his thigh, keeping time.
It wasn’t till several songs later, when the crowd thinned for the evening meal that he dared to come closer. Vihaan, whose job it is to cheer the crowd and shake the bowl, mostly because he’s handsome, flirtatious and otherwise useless, finally noticed the striking young man.
Did I mention that Vihaan is also an idiot? How he had not noticed this strange creature who had been watching us for over an hour escapes me still.
But Vihaan spotted him and called him over, his patter of complements and flashing smile falling on seemingly deaf ears. Because it was to Aarav, the leader of our troop, the pale stranger addressed himself. Not in words, for he kept mute, but with actions no player could fail to understand.
He drew from the breast of his shirt a flute of silver and some dark wood. It drew a gasp of admiration from more than one of the players. It was a thing of beauty and undoubted value, its silver mouthpiece alone worth more than we would earn in a season. And the way the pale stranger held it, he treasured it.
He gestured for us to play on, licking his lips in preparation to join in. Beside me, Dhruv’s breath caught. The stranger was attractive; no man could deny it and Dhruv’s eye, as mine, followed that small but sensual gesture.
I would be lying if I said I hadn’t replayed that little lick in my mind over and over.
Aarav selected the song with a flick of his hand. Most of us had played together for many years and knew how to read Aarav’s little motions and directions. A useful skill in a crowded market place or rowdy hall. It was a simple, well known tune, not particularly difficult to play. Clearly he wanted to start out with something easy.
The stranger listened, head nodding softly before bringing the flute to his lips. The sound that issued from it were just as sweet and clear as we all expected from an instrument so fine. But it was way the stranger played – quick and clever, weaving a tune of his own that complemented the simple song, skipping around it in playful harmonies.
Aarav, clearly impressed, signalled to step it up to something more complex. We followed him with the practice of years, only young Shaurya trailing behind in inexperience.
The stranger however, never dropped a beat. He smiled around the silver tip, eyes shining as he kept pace with both speed of song and complexity.
One by one, our troop fell away. Only Veer, the elder most and more experienced of our players kept up with Aarav’s quick changes, following the movement of our leader’s bow over the stings of his rubab more than the signals of his other hand.
But the stranger flourished under the challenge, his cheeks flushed from the effort.
At last, Aarav relented, drawing out a long finishing note and bowing deeply to the stranger.
And then the cheers.
We had all been so intent on this battle of soaring song, none of us had noticed the crowd that had gathered around us once more. It was the evening meal, the time when the street we lingered in was quietest. By now we had usually moved on, seeking some tavern to play or finding our own suppers. But now the street was full, people leaning from their windows to hear us.
Fortunately Vihaan remembered why we kept him around, being not particularly useful for anything else, and held his bowl out to the crowds, encouraging them to show their appreciation in coin.
Under the cover of Vihaan’s noise, Aarav moved closer, his voice lower as he greeted the stranger. “You are a musician of great skill.” He bowed slightly again. “It would be an honour if you joined us for a meal.” It was an expected offer, seeing the stranger was most certainly responsible for the loud clink of coins dropping into Vihaan’s bowl. More than we’d made in the whole day previous judging by the grin on Vihaan’s face.
By rights, some of that coin belonged to the stranger and knowing Aarav, he would have shared it fairly if asked. But the stranger didn’t ask, so Aarav didn’t offer. A good meal was an honourable enough compromise.
The young man smiled softly and bowed in return, brushing a stray lock of spun gold back from his face. But he didn’t speak, not even as Aarav introduced himself and each of us. Not even to give his own name.
I watched Aarav and the stranger as we packed our things, ready to move on for the evening. The pale man held Aarav’s eye, watching his lips but his expression remained impassive, making no attempt to answer.
“He is mute.” Veer muttered, grunting as he hefted his pack. “Or else he’s an idiot.”
“More likely he doesn’t speak our tongue.” I answered softly. It seemed rude to speak about the stranger with him standing only a little way off. “No idiot could play like that. Just look at Vihaan.”
Vihaan made a rude gesture at me. “I may not be able to play like you, Kian but at least people don’t run away from me screaming.”
I made a rude gesture in return and aimed a kick in Vihaan’s direction that he danced away from. I’d long since stopped being self conscious about scar that twisted the left side of my face, or the violence off my past but that didn’t mean I liked Vihaan making a joke of it. As he too often did.
Mute, idiot or a foreigner, the pale stranger seemed to get the idea of sharing a meal and followed us, even offering to help Veer with his heavy pack.
We back to our lodging for our meal. Despite the evening’s bounty, Aarav was always quick to point out we had to be careful with our money. The festival had not yet started and soon we would be competing with dozens of other troops for every coin. Our widowed landlady was none too pleased to be asked to make room for one more at our table. But there, she was none too pleased by anything we did. For all she scowled at our late nights and rowdy comings and goings, she let us come back, year after year. Of course, we all put that down to whatever understanding she and Aarav had.
I watched the pale stranger over the meal. Mute he might be, but he was by no means lacking in wits. His bright and deep eyes followed every conversation, every joke. He tried every dish, accepting all that was put before him with good grace and manners. At one stage he looked up and caught me watching him. Our eyes met and I knew he was watching me as much as I was watching him. No, this one was no idiot. Not by a long way.
Much to no-one surprise, Vihaan suggested we go out, hit the taverns. As he did every night. But much to everyone’s surprise Aarav agreed, doling out a small chime of coins to each of us to spend on drinks. He offered a few coins to the stranger too, who refused at once, flushing shyly.
We lost Vihaan and Shaurya before we even made it to a tavern, vanishing off down some alley to find a brothel or a game somewhere. No doubt they would turn up in the morning – Vihaan grinning and Shaurya with a sore head and swearing never again.
As for the rest of us, we found a tavern that suited us – a small place frequented more often by players and musicians than the crowds we played to, or preyed on. We knew many of those there, other troops we ran across year after year. There was rivalry of course, but friendship too. And more than a few playful arguments about who owed whom a drink from last festival season.
Many eyes turned to the striking stranger at Aarav’s side but Aarav’s reputation and stern countenance kept more direct interest at bay.
It wasn’t many drinks into the night before instruments were pulled from bags and playful challenges issued from one group to another. This was no new thing either but a way to show off between players, to size up the competition and share new material.
The stranger listened with eyes bright, one hand resting over his chest and the little flute kept safe there. He moved to pull it out at one stage but Aarav’s hand on his sleeve stopped him, a warning flashing in his eyes. There were people there neither he nor I trusted. It would be all too easy for someone to follow this waif of a man back to his lodgings and vanish him into an alley for the flute’s silver tip alone.
Accepting our judgement, he nodded and went back to listening but I could tell he itching to join in. Not so much to show off but to challenge his skills just as he had done with us. I watched him; the eager strain of his body, the way he bit his lip and moved his fingers over the flat of his thigh.
I caught myself wondering how he would look in the throes of passion and drank deeply try to smother the thoughts. I’d left that part of myself behind me and I would not let it rear it’s head again.
Several drinks later, the compulsion to join in became too great and the pale stranger broke. Not with his flute but with a voice more pure and lovely than any of us could have imagined. None of us knew what language he sang but not a man there could deny the passion and soaring beauty of it. He wove a spell with his song, sweet and endearing as youth’s first love, holding every ear, eye and heart.
When the last note died away, it left silence in its wake. Who dared pollute the air with any sound after that? The innkeeper, a tone-deaf idiot who paid little attention to anyone not holding a coin, farted, breaking the spell for all of us.
The stranger laughed warmly, coving his mouth and nose. Which set the rest of the room to laughing too.
“Well,” Veer muttered, finishing off his drink. “Now we know he’s not a mute. Aarav, talk him into joining us. With that little Kokila in the troop this year, I can retire.”
And somehow Aarav did, convincing the pale stranger to join us.
It didn’t seem strange at the time, that Kokila was now one of us. He just was. It seemed as simple as that for him as well as us. A pallet in our lodgings, a place at the table and an equal share of the takings at the end of the season.
Kokila was a good name for him - an alien creature raised amount the other chicks in a nest. Still silent but for his song, he listened and watched, learning our set of songs with a speed I would not have credited if I hadn’t seen him play that first day.
It was his passion that drew the crowds as much as his skin. Vihaan’s patter and handsome grin could charm a coin out of most but Kokila’s smile could stop a man in his tracks. And it wasn’t an act, the ways Vihaan’s was. The way Kokila sang, danced or played was always purely for the joy of doing it. Without pretence. He glowed in a way no-one could help but smile at. His joy was infectious.
But we knew nothing of him, not even a name, other than the one we gave him. He had training as a musician; I could guess that much easily. He had talent, without a doubt but formal training too. Soft hands and pale skin that burnt all too easily, he had never ploughed a field or worked at any craft too rough.
And yet he pulled his weight as readily as any other member of the troop. More readily than our younger men in fact, something Veer admonished Vihaan and Shaurya for often. Day after day, he rose with us, washed and ate, travelled with us from market to market, plying our trade.
Everything was a new and exciting wonder for him and his queer bright eyes seemed to drink in every sight, savour every experience. As if his cup could never be filled.
In the lull of mornings, while the festival goers were sleeping off the excesses of the night before, Kokila could be found sitting with Veer or Aarav, taking instruction on their instruments or practicing a new piece. They spoke slowly for him, but never cruelly as one might to an idiot. Ever ready to show what they couldn’t explain.
I watched them at practice one morning; privately jealous of the way Aarav guided Kokila’s fingers over the bow, a hand on his elbow to correct his posture. I made me wonder why the strange creature had never asked to learn from me, or from Dhruv. Granted the drums required different skills and was not considered as highly as the tumbi or the rubab, but still.
And then his eyes met mine, as if aware I was watching him and I saw a flash of something in those strange eyes. A weariness.
He understood more than he let on, of that I was sure but he never spoke or answered in words. Had the others mentioned my past in front of him? Vihaan might have but the others never spoke of it. Or was it the ugliness of my face that made him cautious?
The flash of weariness passed and his face smoothed back into an unreadable mask he seemed to wear only for me. He knew – knew I watched him, knew I studied him just as he studied the others and that bothered him.
That night, I managed to get him alone. It was harder than I had expected. He had a habit of washing and toileting alone, always modest and careful never to show much of his skin. In a lodging full of men, all sleeping on the one floor, sharing the one room, this was quite an impressive feat. It meant he was watchful of his surroundings and seemed to see better in the dark than most. I lingered in the shadows as he crossed to the wash house, keeping well back. What I meant to do, I can’t say. To challenge him perhaps, to catch hold of him and shake him till he spoke. To demand the truth from him, of whatever he was hiding, I don’t know.
For just as I stepped out to follow him he opened a door that flooded the alley with light, brighter than any I’d ever seen and vanished inside.
I didn’t have time to ponder what that meant before the door opened again and he stepped out, subtly changed and carrying a sack over one shoulder. He paused on the step, leaning back into the light to whisper to, or kiss a figure standing there. Whether man or woman I couldn’t tell. The light behind them was too bright and all I could see was the shadows they cast but the figure was a head taller at least than Kokila.
I didn’t see him slip away. The brightness of the light dulled my vision but when I went inside, I found him kneeling by his pallet, moving cloth wrapped bundles from the sack to his own bag and laughing at some joke of Vihaan.
None of the others saw anything treacherous in his strangeness. Not the way I did.
Yes, he was queerly foreign. Yes, it was odd that he never spoke and yet sung with such beauty he had once reduced a crowd of people to tears. But he was Kokila, and Kokila brought us riches and good fortune so he was allowed to be as strange as he wished.
And there were his vanishings. Every morning, Kokila would rise before the sun and carefully extricate himself from the mass of snoring bodies and sleeping mats as silently as a cat. Slipping silently out the door, he would not be seen till at least an hour after dawn.
This, of course, was the source of much speculation amongst the troop. As well as my own private thoughts which I shared with no-one. Vihaan joked more than once about following him to see where he went but Aarav shut down the discussion. “If whatever god he worships requires he be alone at dawn, so be it. A woe to anyone who disturbs him.” Woe, in this case, meant a dock in that person’s share. Something no-one in the troop could afford. Not with the take being so good this year.
Towards the end of the festival, Aarav loosened the reins a little, letting us enjoy the last few days of parties. Veer’s prediction had rung true – Kokila’s exotic looks, his stunning voice and his skilled playing had drawn a crowd everywhere we played and we would go back to the village handsomely wealthy and able to support our families for some seasons.
It was Vihaan who declared, after one too many drinks, that Kokila was in fact a woman. Some foreign woman who had run away from a rich husband who won’t have her because she looked too much like a man. He announced this theory rather loudly and just as Kokila was returning from the bar with a round of drinks.
Kokila’s eyes kept their mask-like implacability but I could see the soft flush at the collar of his shirt as settled back on the cushions to sip his wine. With a small but playful smile, he handed the drink Vihaan had requested to Shaurya, who drank it in a single gulp.
Veer rose with great dignity for his age and faced Vihaan. “You,” He announced, not slurring at all despite the amount he had already drunk, “just say that so you don’t feel guilty about thinking of Kokila when you touch yourself.”
I watched Kokila cough, a sip of wine had gone down the wrong way and making it impossible for him to hide his reaction.
So he had understood every word spoke.
The thought kept me awake that night, my skin feeling tight with the awareness that Kokila lay only a few spans away from me. Kokila was no woman, of that much I was sure but there was something, some secret I couldn’t see to the heart of. I’ve always been good at reading people, at seeing what others couldn’t but Kokila...
I felt my fists clench at my sides, tension grinding at my jaw. It made my blood burn that he was hiding the truth. That he was lying to us. Whoever and whatever he was had charmed the others, just as it had charmed the coins out of so many purses. Only I could see it, the sinisterness in him. He was dangerous, of that I was sure. A demon wearing the skin of a man. I felt the old rage growing in me, the anger and righteousness I thought I’d left behind. All night it coiled in me, like a rock in my stomach, keeping me from sleeping.
And then I heard him rise, seeming to feel the coming dawn with some sense the rest of us didn’t possess. I resolved to follow him, to find out his secret.
As quietly as I could I followed him through the shadows, hanging back as he fetched up a sack and a skin of water from some hidden place. Sure footed as a cat, he climbed up the rickety wicket and onto the roof.
I dared not follow that way. I would be too easily seen and the lattice would never take my weight, being twice as heavy as him.
And I wanted him alone.
It took me some minutes to find a way up onto the lodging’s flat roof, having to climb onto another building and jump the narrow gap between them.
He knelt with his back to me, facing east towards the warming horizon. In the fine threads of light, I could see his lithe form silhouetted as he stripped and started to wash himself.
Unaware of me, he parted his thighs, touching himself as he washed. I found myself burning with desire. It wasn’t a new desire. I too had touched myself thinking of him many times. It was not against the law but it was considered shameful. Only I was not ashamed. In my private thoughts and under the cover of Veer’s snoring, I had pictured him on his knees, my hand buried in his golden hair.
Hair that fell over his shoulder like as shadow as he half turned to brush the cloth down his flank. And suddenly I found myself doubting Vihaan’s foolish joke because against the still shadowed dark of the predawn, Kokila’s chest curved like a woman’s.
Perhaps Vihaan was right? Was this the demon’s true form? My eyes sweeping the slender body the first light revealed only as shape and shadow reminding me too well of the rakshasa temptress who had maimed my face.
*** warning starts***
I moved closer, no conscious thought to my actions as I silently shed my own clothes. I ached, just as I had that night. She had teased me, tempted me, but denied me when I had come to her. Just as they had that night, my hands itched - to possess, to overpower. To take all that had been denied to me.
Kokila didn’t hear me until I stood less than a span away. It was too dark to see those strange eyes as he turned to look up at me but I heard his breathing hitch. If in surprise or fear, I didn’t know. Or care.
Kokila made no panicked move to cover up as I knelt behind him, My hands closed over those small breasts. I could feel the heart within that chest, bird fast and hammered as he tried to pull away.
But I didn’t care. I was need. I was desire. Man or woman, it didn’t matter. This strange and beautiful creature would sing for my pleasure. And mine alone.
With one hand around the slender throat, I pushed Kokila down, my manhood seeking the heat that would soon be mine.
As I did, the sun’s first rays touched the rooftop, making detail of what was shadow. The long, lean curve of Kokila’s back was marred with scars. The thin crossing lines of a lash, some time healed but still raised and silvery in the growing light.
And there, on Kokila’s shoulder, the deep cut marks I recognised as the writing of the eastern lands. Between his thighs, forced wide by my own, I could see clearly the small manhood and smooth scar.
Hijras are rare but not unheard of. And most, if not all, are slaves.
Just as Kokila must have been.
I was still for a long moment, my manhood drooping as my lust fled from me. So many things fell into place – his sweet voice, his trained gift for music, the way he kept his scarred skin hidden from view. The way he watched and listened but never spoke, fearful of giving himself away. No demon, no dangerous secret. Just a cruelly used slave running away to seek a new and better life.
And I would have used him crueller still.
I forced my hand open, falling back on my heels as he fell to the rooftop gasping. Already bruises were forming around his throat, spotted with blood where he had clawed at me to break free.
And I hadn’t felt it. I hadn’t felt anything but lust as I held him down.
“Kokila, forgive me. Oh Krishna, I’m so sorry.” I stumbled back, tripping over my own dropped clothes as I did. I wretched, vomiting up what little was left in my stomach from the night before. Once again, I had given in to the darkness inside me. The violence I had tried to leave behind.
He rose slowly, every line of his body tense as he dressed. He spoke not a word but dressed slowly, collecting his things. He kept his eyes on me, watching as an animal watches a wounded predator and dropped carefully down the lattice and out of view.
I didn’t leave the roof for many hours, too weak with disgust at myself to move.
When I finally dragged myself down to our lodgings, everyone was gone. Everyone but Aarav. My drums and my clothes were packed and piled by the door.
“You will leave at once.” His voice was flat as the waveless sea. “You not go back to the village. You have no place there. You will leave Kollam before sunset.” He placed three coins on top of my drums. Not even close to my share but enough for passage on a ship to... anywhere else. “If I see you again, I will kill you.” He turned his back without another word.
***
Few weeks later, Sinric parted company with the troop, despite their invitations to come back to their village with them. The yellow marks around his neck, hidden by the scarf of soft cotton drew their eyes, even as they say goodbye. Even if it hadn’t been for that, for the apologies in their eye, the constant regret, Sinric wouldn’t have stayed. He felt the wind tugging at his hair, it was time to go.
His share of the players’ takings in his Milliways pouch, he headed for the docks. It was time to turn his eyes toward to Constantine’s City. The place he once called home.
There was nothing unusual about them. They were the clothes of any city dweller of Kollam; simple and without much ornamentation. But too clean, too new. Too ordinary. Even his sandals were so new the straps still held their stiffness, leaving red marks where they chaffed his slender ankles.
They were workman’s clothes. And this delicate creature was no workman. Nor a native of Kollam. Not with hair and skin so pale.
Kollam is one of the busiest ports for many days travel, a great and bustling city. People come here from every direction, and every harbour. And during the festival, even more so. The dress of many lands can be seen on every street, a dozen languages heard on every corner.
And yet he wore nothing that would give him a nation or identity. Only the long golden hair he kept bound and braided tight to his neck to wonder at. This was a man hiding his nature – from himself or others I didn’t know.
I watched him move towards us, drawn by the music we played as many others were. Three days before the festival’s official start, the streets were already crowding. Small as he was, he slipped between the listeners, half hidden behind a pack of grandmothers whose bent backs he could see over.
From the back of our group, my dhadd drum across my knee, I watched him. The music delighted him; I could see it in the smile that crept across his face, the way his fingers danced against his thigh, keeping time.
It wasn’t till several songs later, when the crowd thinned for the evening meal that he dared to come closer. Vihaan, whose job it is to cheer the crowd and shake the bowl, mostly because he’s handsome, flirtatious and otherwise useless, finally noticed the striking young man.
Did I mention that Vihaan is also an idiot? How he had not noticed this strange creature who had been watching us for over an hour escapes me still.
But Vihaan spotted him and called him over, his patter of complements and flashing smile falling on seemingly deaf ears. Because it was to Aarav, the leader of our troop, the pale stranger addressed himself. Not in words, for he kept mute, but with actions no player could fail to understand.
He drew from the breast of his shirt a flute of silver and some dark wood. It drew a gasp of admiration from more than one of the players. It was a thing of beauty and undoubted value, its silver mouthpiece alone worth more than we would earn in a season. And the way the pale stranger held it, he treasured it.
He gestured for us to play on, licking his lips in preparation to join in. Beside me, Dhruv’s breath caught. The stranger was attractive; no man could deny it and Dhruv’s eye, as mine, followed that small but sensual gesture.
I would be lying if I said I hadn’t replayed that little lick in my mind over and over.
Aarav selected the song with a flick of his hand. Most of us had played together for many years and knew how to read Aarav’s little motions and directions. A useful skill in a crowded market place or rowdy hall. It was a simple, well known tune, not particularly difficult to play. Clearly he wanted to start out with something easy.
The stranger listened, head nodding softly before bringing the flute to his lips. The sound that issued from it were just as sweet and clear as we all expected from an instrument so fine. But it was way the stranger played – quick and clever, weaving a tune of his own that complemented the simple song, skipping around it in playful harmonies.
Aarav, clearly impressed, signalled to step it up to something more complex. We followed him with the practice of years, only young Shaurya trailing behind in inexperience.
The stranger however, never dropped a beat. He smiled around the silver tip, eyes shining as he kept pace with both speed of song and complexity.
One by one, our troop fell away. Only Veer, the elder most and more experienced of our players kept up with Aarav’s quick changes, following the movement of our leader’s bow over the stings of his rubab more than the signals of his other hand.
But the stranger flourished under the challenge, his cheeks flushed from the effort.
At last, Aarav relented, drawing out a long finishing note and bowing deeply to the stranger.
And then the cheers.
We had all been so intent on this battle of soaring song, none of us had noticed the crowd that had gathered around us once more. It was the evening meal, the time when the street we lingered in was quietest. By now we had usually moved on, seeking some tavern to play or finding our own suppers. But now the street was full, people leaning from their windows to hear us.
Fortunately Vihaan remembered why we kept him around, being not particularly useful for anything else, and held his bowl out to the crowds, encouraging them to show their appreciation in coin.
Under the cover of Vihaan’s noise, Aarav moved closer, his voice lower as he greeted the stranger. “You are a musician of great skill.” He bowed slightly again. “It would be an honour if you joined us for a meal.” It was an expected offer, seeing the stranger was most certainly responsible for the loud clink of coins dropping into Vihaan’s bowl. More than we’d made in the whole day previous judging by the grin on Vihaan’s face.
By rights, some of that coin belonged to the stranger and knowing Aarav, he would have shared it fairly if asked. But the stranger didn’t ask, so Aarav didn’t offer. A good meal was an honourable enough compromise.
The young man smiled softly and bowed in return, brushing a stray lock of spun gold back from his face. But he didn’t speak, not even as Aarav introduced himself and each of us. Not even to give his own name.
I watched Aarav and the stranger as we packed our things, ready to move on for the evening. The pale man held Aarav’s eye, watching his lips but his expression remained impassive, making no attempt to answer.
“He is mute.” Veer muttered, grunting as he hefted his pack. “Or else he’s an idiot.”
“More likely he doesn’t speak our tongue.” I answered softly. It seemed rude to speak about the stranger with him standing only a little way off. “No idiot could play like that. Just look at Vihaan.”
Vihaan made a rude gesture at me. “I may not be able to play like you, Kian but at least people don’t run away from me screaming.”
I made a rude gesture in return and aimed a kick in Vihaan’s direction that he danced away from. I’d long since stopped being self conscious about scar that twisted the left side of my face, or the violence off my past but that didn’t mean I liked Vihaan making a joke of it. As he too often did.
Mute, idiot or a foreigner, the pale stranger seemed to get the idea of sharing a meal and followed us, even offering to help Veer with his heavy pack.
We back to our lodging for our meal. Despite the evening’s bounty, Aarav was always quick to point out we had to be careful with our money. The festival had not yet started and soon we would be competing with dozens of other troops for every coin. Our widowed landlady was none too pleased to be asked to make room for one more at our table. But there, she was none too pleased by anything we did. For all she scowled at our late nights and rowdy comings and goings, she let us come back, year after year. Of course, we all put that down to whatever understanding she and Aarav had.
I watched the pale stranger over the meal. Mute he might be, but he was by no means lacking in wits. His bright and deep eyes followed every conversation, every joke. He tried every dish, accepting all that was put before him with good grace and manners. At one stage he looked up and caught me watching him. Our eyes met and I knew he was watching me as much as I was watching him. No, this one was no idiot. Not by a long way.
Much to no-one surprise, Vihaan suggested we go out, hit the taverns. As he did every night. But much to everyone’s surprise Aarav agreed, doling out a small chime of coins to each of us to spend on drinks. He offered a few coins to the stranger too, who refused at once, flushing shyly.
We lost Vihaan and Shaurya before we even made it to a tavern, vanishing off down some alley to find a brothel or a game somewhere. No doubt they would turn up in the morning – Vihaan grinning and Shaurya with a sore head and swearing never again.
As for the rest of us, we found a tavern that suited us – a small place frequented more often by players and musicians than the crowds we played to, or preyed on. We knew many of those there, other troops we ran across year after year. There was rivalry of course, but friendship too. And more than a few playful arguments about who owed whom a drink from last festival season.
Many eyes turned to the striking stranger at Aarav’s side but Aarav’s reputation and stern countenance kept more direct interest at bay.
It wasn’t many drinks into the night before instruments were pulled from bags and playful challenges issued from one group to another. This was no new thing either but a way to show off between players, to size up the competition and share new material.
The stranger listened with eyes bright, one hand resting over his chest and the little flute kept safe there. He moved to pull it out at one stage but Aarav’s hand on his sleeve stopped him, a warning flashing in his eyes. There were people there neither he nor I trusted. It would be all too easy for someone to follow this waif of a man back to his lodgings and vanish him into an alley for the flute’s silver tip alone.
Accepting our judgement, he nodded and went back to listening but I could tell he itching to join in. Not so much to show off but to challenge his skills just as he had done with us. I watched him; the eager strain of his body, the way he bit his lip and moved his fingers over the flat of his thigh.
I caught myself wondering how he would look in the throes of passion and drank deeply try to smother the thoughts. I’d left that part of myself behind me and I would not let it rear it’s head again.
Several drinks later, the compulsion to join in became too great and the pale stranger broke. Not with his flute but with a voice more pure and lovely than any of us could have imagined. None of us knew what language he sang but not a man there could deny the passion and soaring beauty of it. He wove a spell with his song, sweet and endearing as youth’s first love, holding every ear, eye and heart.
When the last note died away, it left silence in its wake. Who dared pollute the air with any sound after that? The innkeeper, a tone-deaf idiot who paid little attention to anyone not holding a coin, farted, breaking the spell for all of us.
The stranger laughed warmly, coving his mouth and nose. Which set the rest of the room to laughing too.
“Well,” Veer muttered, finishing off his drink. “Now we know he’s not a mute. Aarav, talk him into joining us. With that little Kokila in the troop this year, I can retire.”
And somehow Aarav did, convincing the pale stranger to join us.
It didn’t seem strange at the time, that Kokila was now one of us. He just was. It seemed as simple as that for him as well as us. A pallet in our lodgings, a place at the table and an equal share of the takings at the end of the season.
Kokila was a good name for him - an alien creature raised amount the other chicks in a nest. Still silent but for his song, he listened and watched, learning our set of songs with a speed I would not have credited if I hadn’t seen him play that first day.
It was his passion that drew the crowds as much as his skin. Vihaan’s patter and handsome grin could charm a coin out of most but Kokila’s smile could stop a man in his tracks. And it wasn’t an act, the ways Vihaan’s was. The way Kokila sang, danced or played was always purely for the joy of doing it. Without pretence. He glowed in a way no-one could help but smile at. His joy was infectious.
But we knew nothing of him, not even a name, other than the one we gave him. He had training as a musician; I could guess that much easily. He had talent, without a doubt but formal training too. Soft hands and pale skin that burnt all too easily, he had never ploughed a field or worked at any craft too rough.
And yet he pulled his weight as readily as any other member of the troop. More readily than our younger men in fact, something Veer admonished Vihaan and Shaurya for often. Day after day, he rose with us, washed and ate, travelled with us from market to market, plying our trade.
Everything was a new and exciting wonder for him and his queer bright eyes seemed to drink in every sight, savour every experience. As if his cup could never be filled.
In the lull of mornings, while the festival goers were sleeping off the excesses of the night before, Kokila could be found sitting with Veer or Aarav, taking instruction on their instruments or practicing a new piece. They spoke slowly for him, but never cruelly as one might to an idiot. Ever ready to show what they couldn’t explain.
I watched them at practice one morning; privately jealous of the way Aarav guided Kokila’s fingers over the bow, a hand on his elbow to correct his posture. I made me wonder why the strange creature had never asked to learn from me, or from Dhruv. Granted the drums required different skills and was not considered as highly as the tumbi or the rubab, but still.
And then his eyes met mine, as if aware I was watching him and I saw a flash of something in those strange eyes. A weariness.
He understood more than he let on, of that I was sure but he never spoke or answered in words. Had the others mentioned my past in front of him? Vihaan might have but the others never spoke of it. Or was it the ugliness of my face that made him cautious?
The flash of weariness passed and his face smoothed back into an unreadable mask he seemed to wear only for me. He knew – knew I watched him, knew I studied him just as he studied the others and that bothered him.
That night, I managed to get him alone. It was harder than I had expected. He had a habit of washing and toileting alone, always modest and careful never to show much of his skin. In a lodging full of men, all sleeping on the one floor, sharing the one room, this was quite an impressive feat. It meant he was watchful of his surroundings and seemed to see better in the dark than most. I lingered in the shadows as he crossed to the wash house, keeping well back. What I meant to do, I can’t say. To challenge him perhaps, to catch hold of him and shake him till he spoke. To demand the truth from him, of whatever he was hiding, I don’t know.
For just as I stepped out to follow him he opened a door that flooded the alley with light, brighter than any I’d ever seen and vanished inside.
I didn’t have time to ponder what that meant before the door opened again and he stepped out, subtly changed and carrying a sack over one shoulder. He paused on the step, leaning back into the light to whisper to, or kiss a figure standing there. Whether man or woman I couldn’t tell. The light behind them was too bright and all I could see was the shadows they cast but the figure was a head taller at least than Kokila.
I didn’t see him slip away. The brightness of the light dulled my vision but when I went inside, I found him kneeling by his pallet, moving cloth wrapped bundles from the sack to his own bag and laughing at some joke of Vihaan.
None of the others saw anything treacherous in his strangeness. Not the way I did.
Yes, he was queerly foreign. Yes, it was odd that he never spoke and yet sung with such beauty he had once reduced a crowd of people to tears. But he was Kokila, and Kokila brought us riches and good fortune so he was allowed to be as strange as he wished.
And there were his vanishings. Every morning, Kokila would rise before the sun and carefully extricate himself from the mass of snoring bodies and sleeping mats as silently as a cat. Slipping silently out the door, he would not be seen till at least an hour after dawn.
This, of course, was the source of much speculation amongst the troop. As well as my own private thoughts which I shared with no-one. Vihaan joked more than once about following him to see where he went but Aarav shut down the discussion. “If whatever god he worships requires he be alone at dawn, so be it. A woe to anyone who disturbs him.” Woe, in this case, meant a dock in that person’s share. Something no-one in the troop could afford. Not with the take being so good this year.
Towards the end of the festival, Aarav loosened the reins a little, letting us enjoy the last few days of parties. Veer’s prediction had rung true – Kokila’s exotic looks, his stunning voice and his skilled playing had drawn a crowd everywhere we played and we would go back to the village handsomely wealthy and able to support our families for some seasons.
It was Vihaan who declared, after one too many drinks, that Kokila was in fact a woman. Some foreign woman who had run away from a rich husband who won’t have her because she looked too much like a man. He announced this theory rather loudly and just as Kokila was returning from the bar with a round of drinks.
Kokila’s eyes kept their mask-like implacability but I could see the soft flush at the collar of his shirt as settled back on the cushions to sip his wine. With a small but playful smile, he handed the drink Vihaan had requested to Shaurya, who drank it in a single gulp.
Veer rose with great dignity for his age and faced Vihaan. “You,” He announced, not slurring at all despite the amount he had already drunk, “just say that so you don’t feel guilty about thinking of Kokila when you touch yourself.”
I watched Kokila cough, a sip of wine had gone down the wrong way and making it impossible for him to hide his reaction.
So he had understood every word spoke.
The thought kept me awake that night, my skin feeling tight with the awareness that Kokila lay only a few spans away from me. Kokila was no woman, of that much I was sure but there was something, some secret I couldn’t see to the heart of. I’ve always been good at reading people, at seeing what others couldn’t but Kokila...
I felt my fists clench at my sides, tension grinding at my jaw. It made my blood burn that he was hiding the truth. That he was lying to us. Whoever and whatever he was had charmed the others, just as it had charmed the coins out of so many purses. Only I could see it, the sinisterness in him. He was dangerous, of that I was sure. A demon wearing the skin of a man. I felt the old rage growing in me, the anger and righteousness I thought I’d left behind. All night it coiled in me, like a rock in my stomach, keeping me from sleeping.
And then I heard him rise, seeming to feel the coming dawn with some sense the rest of us didn’t possess. I resolved to follow him, to find out his secret.
As quietly as I could I followed him through the shadows, hanging back as he fetched up a sack and a skin of water from some hidden place. Sure footed as a cat, he climbed up the rickety wicket and onto the roof.
I dared not follow that way. I would be too easily seen and the lattice would never take my weight, being twice as heavy as him.
And I wanted him alone.
It took me some minutes to find a way up onto the lodging’s flat roof, having to climb onto another building and jump the narrow gap between them.
He knelt with his back to me, facing east towards the warming horizon. In the fine threads of light, I could see his lithe form silhouetted as he stripped and started to wash himself.
Unaware of me, he parted his thighs, touching himself as he washed. I found myself burning with desire. It wasn’t a new desire. I too had touched myself thinking of him many times. It was not against the law but it was considered shameful. Only I was not ashamed. In my private thoughts and under the cover of Veer’s snoring, I had pictured him on his knees, my hand buried in his golden hair.
Hair that fell over his shoulder like as shadow as he half turned to brush the cloth down his flank. And suddenly I found myself doubting Vihaan’s foolish joke because against the still shadowed dark of the predawn, Kokila’s chest curved like a woman’s.
Perhaps Vihaan was right? Was this the demon’s true form? My eyes sweeping the slender body the first light revealed only as shape and shadow reminding me too well of the rakshasa temptress who had maimed my face.
I moved closer, no conscious thought to my actions as I silently shed my own clothes. I ached, just as I had that night. She had teased me, tempted me, but denied me when I had come to her. Just as they had that night, my hands itched - to possess, to overpower. To take all that had been denied to me.
Kokila didn’t hear me until I stood less than a span away. It was too dark to see those strange eyes as he turned to look up at me but I heard his breathing hitch. If in surprise or fear, I didn’t know. Or care.
Kokila made no panicked move to cover up as I knelt behind him, My hands closed over those small breasts. I could feel the heart within that chest, bird fast and hammered as he tried to pull away.
But I didn’t care. I was need. I was desire. Man or woman, it didn’t matter. This strange and beautiful creature would sing for my pleasure. And mine alone.
With one hand around the slender throat, I pushed Kokila down, my manhood seeking the heat that would soon be mine.
As I did, the sun’s first rays touched the rooftop, making detail of what was shadow. The long, lean curve of Kokila’s back was marred with scars. The thin crossing lines of a lash, some time healed but still raised and silvery in the growing light.
And there, on Kokila’s shoulder, the deep cut marks I recognised as the writing of the eastern lands. Between his thighs, forced wide by my own, I could see clearly the small manhood and smooth scar.
Hijras are rare but not unheard of. And most, if not all, are slaves.
Just as Kokila must have been.
I was still for a long moment, my manhood drooping as my lust fled from me. So many things fell into place – his sweet voice, his trained gift for music, the way he kept his scarred skin hidden from view. The way he watched and listened but never spoke, fearful of giving himself away. No demon, no dangerous secret. Just a cruelly used slave running away to seek a new and better life.
And I would have used him crueller still.
I forced my hand open, falling back on my heels as he fell to the rooftop gasping. Already bruises were forming around his throat, spotted with blood where he had clawed at me to break free.
And I hadn’t felt it. I hadn’t felt anything but lust as I held him down.
“Kokila, forgive me. Oh Krishna, I’m so sorry.” I stumbled back, tripping over my own dropped clothes as I did. I wretched, vomiting up what little was left in my stomach from the night before. Once again, I had given in to the darkness inside me. The violence I had tried to leave behind.
He rose slowly, every line of his body tense as he dressed. He spoke not a word but dressed slowly, collecting his things. He kept his eyes on me, watching as an animal watches a wounded predator and dropped carefully down the lattice and out of view.
I didn’t leave the roof for many hours, too weak with disgust at myself to move.
When I finally dragged myself down to our lodgings, everyone was gone. Everyone but Aarav. My drums and my clothes were packed and piled by the door.
“You will leave at once.” His voice was flat as the waveless sea. “You not go back to the village. You have no place there. You will leave Kollam before sunset.” He placed three coins on top of my drums. Not even close to my share but enough for passage on a ship to... anywhere else. “If I see you again, I will kill you.” He turned his back without another word.
***
Few weeks later, Sinric parted company with the troop, despite their invitations to come back to their village with them. The yellow marks around his neck, hidden by the scarf of soft cotton drew their eyes, even as they say goodbye. Even if it hadn’t been for that, for the apologies in their eye, the constant regret, Sinric wouldn’t have stayed. He felt the wind tugging at his hair, it was time to go.
His share of the players’ takings in his Milliways pouch, he headed for the docks. It was time to turn his eyes toward to Constantine’s City. The place he once called home.
