She was beautiful.
Her skin was thickly dark. Her eyes were pools of ink, deep and unfathomable. She wore her sari with dignity, and she carried her water from the temple well with confidence and grace.
“Kalin,” came a sharp voice. He turned from the open window and faced the Brahmin who was his mentor. He cast his blue eyes to the hem of the man’s robe.
The priest put a hand on his shoulder. “You have been here how long?”
“Three years, master.”
“It is time for you to go.”
He jerked his head up. “Master?”
The older Indian Brahmin smiled kindly at him. “You do not belong here, Kalin. You never did.”
His eyes blazed with anger, and then he forced himself to swallow it, reciting a prayer to do it. The language was foreign in his head, and he knew that he didn’t feel it in his heart. He had the same feeling in Vietnam, in the Buddhist monestaries. He knew the languages, the culture, but not the spirit. He thought if he stayed in the monestaries, he could avoid that which drove him. However, soon enough, he would find himself among a fight, or even a war.
“I will leave tonight.”
“No. Have dinner with me, and leave in the morning.”
“As you wish, master.”
He patted Kalin’s shoulder and walked away. Kalin headed to his room, and began packing his things.
The next morning, he was given the clothes he wore when he first came there. Of course, they fit, as he had never gained or lost any weight. His blond hair was the same length as when he had arrived. His legs were more muscular, however, after climbing the many hills of the monastery to deliver messages or to perform the prayers necessary for others. None of the natives asked him for prayers. He was a gora. The Hindu gods didn’t listen to him.
Oftentimes, like now, he wondered whether or not the natives were right. He had come down from the heights of the monastery and waited alone at the well, waiting to see her, to at least speak with her. At around midmorning, she came, with three other women. He could hear her chatter, hear her voice that sounded like bells. She wore a blue and white sari, with well-worn sandals. He stepped forward when she was at the well, and he bowed low to her, as a Brahmin would. She looked at him, blinking.
“Allow me, most beautiful in the light of the sun, allow me please to carry your water for you.”
The two women with her giggled at his heavily accented Hindi. He cursed himself for taking a Brit’s mind in order to learn that langauge and the entire culture of this area of the world. She, however, did not. She handed him her jug.
He filled it for her himself, something that a man did not do. He held the jug in his arms and said, “Most beautiful one, lead the way.”
“I will bring it home,” she said, looking intently at him. “My brothers would not like it if I bring you home.”
“I assure you, I am not like the gora. I am not even British.”
“My brothers,” she said gently, “would not appreciate that you do this for me.”
Finally, he just stopped, and took the jug out of her hands. He took her hands, and she – and the rest of the world, it seemed – gasped. This was not done. This was JUST NOT DONE.
He didn’t care. “I will endure any punishment or beating your brothers choose to dish out upon me. I wish…” Then he bent over her hands, pressing the backs of them to his forehead in a Croatoan motion of a kiss. She smelled wonderful. “I wish to know your name.”
She hesitated long enough for him to think he had far overstepped his bounds. “Jyotibahen Saka.”
He wanted to fall to his knees, to practically beg her to be his. He’d go through fire and hell for her. Part of him kept telling him he’d done this over, and over, and over since Claire, his first wife, and was hurt every time, either by the person themselves or by circumstances.
“I am Christopher Alexander Donovan,” he said, using a name he hadn’t used since 1763. “I’m an American.”
“Your accent – ”
“I was taught by a Brit and picked up his mannerisms.”
She looked undecided.
“Please, I beg of you.”
The women around him tittered. Finally, Jyoti agreed, and he walked with her, carrying her jug of water. People passed them, staring. He didn’t care. His whole focus was on this beautiful woman.
In about an hour they arrived at a small home. She took the jug from him, and their hands touched. He gazed into her eyes, begging. And then, there came a shout.
Three shirtless men came pouring out of the house. Donovan moved back away from her, and the jug fell out of her hands. Two of the men had scythes and one had a bat. They were screaming words he didn’t even know. He tossed his backpack far enough away so that it landed a good length behind him. He stood still.
He breathed. He centered. He didn’t make the martial arts motions to clear and clarify the world, so that it would be brighter to his senses, to the point that he would be able to hear their heartbeats. He suspected they were going to just all out barrel into him.
As he expected, they did come at him. He held a hand out and exhaled, throwing his life force forward, and the middle man stopped, bumping into an invisible wall. Donovan moved to the left, to the other man with the scythe and stepped between his halted brother. With a gentle push, toward his shoulder, he made the man go off balance, so that he tucked under both Donovan and his brother.
The last man with the bat, he stepped backward and blocked him with his body so that the bat went over his shoulder and would have hit the man with the scythe, but he was already moving down. Donovan twisted his body and the man fell off balance, ending up sprawled out behind Donovan. Donovan danced out of the circle of the three men.
He kept his breathing rhythmic and waited for them to get up. They did, and started to surround him on three sides. Now Donovan gathered his chi into a small ball at his solar plexus, and he waited for them to move.
A bellowing voice yelling in that same language stopped the fight.
The three brothers talked over each other. The man who came out of the house was small like most Indians, but he carried the same dignity as Jyoti. Donovan stood absolutely still, waiting for the man to say something.
He looked at the brothers, and barked that they get away. Then he walked up to Donovan, who stood straight, and shoved the ball of chi to the ground. The man walked all around Donovan. “You’re too tall to be British,” he said in English.
“I am an American,” Donovan said with his midwest accent, staring straight ahead, feeling like a soldier being examined by the drill sergeant.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was trying to find enlightenment, but I cannot hear the gods.”
The man now stood in front of Donovan, who finally looked down at him. He still stood in a neutral “at ease” position. “They’re not your gods,” the man snapped.
“I know that, now.”
“What were you doing with my daughter?”
Donovan looked into the man’s black eyes. “I want to marry her.”
The brothers yelled and threatened, but the man held up a hand. He looked over Donovan. “How do you expect to pay for her dowry?”
He said, in complete and utter seriousness, “With my life.”
The man looked stunned, and then slowly grinned. “I give you a year. You will live and work in our household. If you can survive that, you may have her hand.”
“I am honored,” Donovan said, and bowed low.
A year later, they were engaged. Using his ability to absorb other cultures and languages, he quickly learned Oriya, the langauge the brothers yelled at him in. He survived the brothers’ treatments, and, in fact, they grudgingly respected him.
Five months after their engagement, Jyoti and most of her village died of an epidemic of smallpox.
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Comment: When Casey falls, he falls hard…