A U T H O R

"Amma, what are you doing?"

Five-year-old Devaki blinked sleepily from the wooden stool in the centre of their modest house. Morning light spilled through the narrow window, painting golden streaks across the earthen floor. The air was thick with the sweet scent of jasmine flowers and sandalwood paste.

Women moved around her in hushed excitement, their voices soft and hurried.

Her mother stood behind her, gently combing her long black hair with slow, deliberate strokes.

"I am getting you ready, my child," she said softly.

"Why?"

"Because today is a special day."

Devaki frowned.

Special days meant sticky sweets, temple music drifting through the village, and permission to run barefoot until the sun dipped low. But no one had offered her any sweets, and every time she tried to slip outside, gentle hands pulled her back.

She watched as her mother wove strands of fresh jasmine into her hair. The tiny white blossoms brushed against her cheek, cool and fragrant. Devaki reached up to touch them.

"They're pretty."

Her mother smiled, though the smile did not reach her eyes.

"They are."

On a woven mat nearby lay a small fortune in gold—bangles, necklaces, anklets, and earrings—more wealth than Devaki had ever seen in her short life.

Her eyes widened.

"Amma… are we rich now?"

Laughter rippled through the room, quick and nervous. One woman covered her mouth, another nearly dropped her tray of flowers.

Devaki pouted. She did not understand what was funny.

"No, child," her mother replied, her voice tender. "We are not rich."

"Then where did all this come from?"

"The temple."

The temple. Everyone kept repeating the word as if it explained everything.

The temple had sent the flowers. The temple had sent the jewellery. The temple had sent the priest who had visited their house twice that morning, murmuring blessings over her head.

Devaki’s gaze fell on the red silk saree folded neatly beside her. The fabric shimmered like liquid fire in the morning light. She had never touched anything so fine.

"Is that for me?"

"Yes."

Her mother wrapped the heavy silk around the little girl’s small frame. The cloth was far too large. Devaki kept stepping on its trailing edge, giggling at the strange sensation.

"It feels funny," she complained.

"You look beautiful," one of the women whispered.

"Like a goddess."

"Blessed."

Blessed.

Devaki liked the sound of that word. It made her feel important.

Outside, the distant clang of temple bells rose above the village rooftops, soon joined by the deep, rhythmic beat of drums. The whole village of Ponnamarai seemed awake and alive with anticipation.

Devaki slid off the stool and darted toward the doorway, eager to see the excitement. Her mother caught her gently by the arm.

"Not yet."

"But I want to see."

"Soon."

Everything was soon. No one would answer her questions.

A moment later, the door opened. Her father stepped inside. Devaki’s face lit up.

"Appa!"

She ran into his arms. He lifted her high and held her so tightly she could scarcely breathe.

"Appa, you’re squeezing me!" she giggled.

He loosened his grip, but his eyes were red and swollen. Devaki tilted her head, studying him.

"You cried," she said.

"No."

"You did."

A sad smile touched his lips. He said nothing.

Her mother approached and adjusted the heavy gold necklace resting against child’s chest. Everything felt heavy—the bangles on her wrists, the earrings pulling at her lobes, the silk weighing on her small shoulders.

The bells rang louder now.

The priest had arrived.

The room fell into a reverent hush. The women stepped back, admiring the little girl who stood before them—draped in bridal red, covered in temple gold, adorned with fragrant jasmine. Devaki grinned proudly, believing she must look very grand indeed.

Her mother knelt before her and cupped her face with trembling hands. For the first time that morning, Devaki saw tears glistening in her eyes.

"Amma? Why are you crying?"

Her mother swallowed hard.

"Because you are growing up."

The answer made no sense. Devaki was only five. Five-year-olds did not grow up in a single morning. But before she could ask anything more, her mother took her hand.

"Come."

Hand in hand with her parents, Devaki stepped out into the bright sunlight. The village crowd erupted in cheers. Flowers rained at her feet. Men and women folded their hands in prayer. Some even bowed their heads.

She smiled wide, thinking it was all a grand celebration arranged just for her.

She did not know that by sunset she would be offered to god.

She did not know that the red silk was not a gift, but a binding.

She did not know that her childhood had ended the moment she crossed the threshold of her home.

All she knew was that everyone called her blessed.

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On the far side of village, beyond the temple streets adorned with flowers and festive garlands, seventeen-year-old Arumugan stood beneath the shade of an ancient neem tree and watched the distant celebration from afar.

The rhythmic beat of drums rolled across the village like thunder, carried on the warm breeze until it reached even the segregated settlement where he lived. He could hear the bright clang of temple bells, the rising cheers of the crowd, and the lively music that filled the air. Yet he knew better than to step any closer.

The main roads did not belong to him.

The temple did not belong to him.

The celebration itself was not meant for someone like him.

He shifted the heavy bundle of firewood resting on his shoulder and narrowed his eyes toward the throng gathered near the temple gates. From this distance, he caught only fleeting glimpses of bright colours swaying between the bodies of the villagers.

“What are they celebrating?” he asked.

An old man seated on the dusty ground nearby spat a thick stream of betel juice into the dirt.

“The new little bride,” he replied gruffly.

Arumugan frowned. “Bride?”

“The Devadasi.”

Understanding settled over him like a shadow. Every few years the temple claimed a girl — a child — who would belong to the deity for the rest of her life. The village elders called it a sacred honour. The old man, like many others in the settlement, called it something far darker.

Arumugan remained silent, his gaze drifting back toward the crowd. For a brief moment, a flash of vivid red silk caught his eye. A tiny figure, weighed down with gold, moved through the sea of people. Jasmine flowers adorned her hair, and the villagers bowed their heads as she passed.

She could not have been older than five or six.

The sight unsettled him deeply.

Everyone around her looked joyful and proud, yet the little girl’s face held only confusion, as though she could not comprehend why so many strangers were staring at her with such reverence.

His fingers tightened around the rough ropes binding the firewood.

“What happens to her now?” he asked quietly.

The old man let out a bitter, sarcastic, rasping laugh.

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