Chapter-1: The Machinist
SHE WOULD HAVE CALLED IT DEATH, but she didn’t.
Mostly because she didn’t know what ‘death’ or ‘life’ or any other word in the world meant. At least, not then. Sometimes, death only means the end of all old memories. The first time Kusha saw the sun after her old memories died, it made her more curious than seeing her own breasts. At least, you can touch your breasts. But you cannot touch the sun.
Meera found her watching the morning sky standing stripped on the roof. “I’m your mother. Mo-ther …” Meera said, approaching her adopted teen-daughter, repeating ‘Mother’ several times. “And you cannot be naked, sweetie,” she added, covering Kusha with her wide, red shawl—spiral depictions of snails, in golden stitches, all over it. It gave Kusha warmth as much as Meera’s voice that belled as if water pouring through rocks in a desert. In response, Kusha extended her fingers to trace her new mother’s lips. She assumed lips create words.
“People talk,” Meera said, fetching those fingers to her own throat, “from here.”
Kusha gasped, sensing how Meera’s vocal cords trembled, how her voice rang. In an instant, her brain, empty of information and full of curiosity, craved to create sounds like that with her own voice, her lips, her tongue, with her entirety of being, if needed.
Kusha removed her fingers from Meera’s throat and lightly touched her own full lips; she gawked at her new mother, expecting she’d speak more. And Meera did.
“But you must speak from here.” Meera showed her belly. “Words are magic, sweetie. With words, you can re-code fate.”
Kusha didn’t understand what she heard. However, her prodigy brain remembered every set of sounds Meera had styled in her speech: “I’m your mother … mo-ther … mo-ther … you can’t be naked … people talk … words are magic … with words, you can re-code fate …” Kusha parroted them the next day in front of her new father and sister, not completely naked this time. Meera made sure Kusha, as a sixteen-year-old girl, wore at least a frock before she left her attic.
This was the moment that started it all. The moment that kicked off her tiny desire to speak that only grew and grew until she craved to become a goddess one day. Either to save the world as in heroic epics, or to destroy it, unlike the most villain-ballads.
Mostly because she didn’t know what ‘death’ or ‘life’ or any other word in the world meant. At least, not then. Sometimes, death only means the end of all old memories. The first time Kusha saw the sun after her old memories died, it made her more curious than seeing her own breasts. At least, you can touch your breasts. But you cannot touch the sun.
Meera found her watching the morning sky standing stripped on the roof. “I’m your mother. Mo-ther …” Meera said, approaching her adopted teen-daughter, repeating ‘Mother’ several times. “And you cannot be naked, sweetie,” she added, covering Kusha with her wide, red shawl—spiral depictions of snails, in golden stitches, all over it. It gave Kusha warmth as much as Meera’s voice that belled as if water pouring through rocks in a desert. In response, Kusha extended her fingers to trace her new mother’s lips. She assumed lips create words.
“People talk,” Meera said, fetching those fingers to her own throat, “from here.”
Kusha gasped, sensing how Meera’s vocal cords trembled, how her voice rang. In an instant, her brain, empty of information and full of curiosity, craved to create sounds like that with her own voice, her lips, her tongue, with her entirety of being, if needed.
Kusha removed her fingers from Meera’s throat and lightly touched her own full lips; she gawked at her new mother, expecting she’d speak more. And Meera did.
“But you must speak from here.” Meera showed her belly. “Words are magic, sweetie. With words, you can re-code fate.”
Kusha didn’t understand what she heard. However, her prodigy brain remembered every set of sounds Meera had styled in her speech: “I’m your mother … mo-ther … mo-ther … you can’t be naked … people talk … words are magic … with words, you can re-code fate …” Kusha parroted them the next day in front of her new father and sister, not completely naked this time. Meera made sure Kusha, as a sixteen-year-old girl, wore at least a frock before she left her attic.
This was the moment that started it all. The moment that kicked off her tiny desire to speak that only grew and grew until she craved to become a goddess one day. Either to save the world as in heroic epics, or to destroy it, unlike the most villain-ballads.
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