My kite was something special. Swifter than a falcon, stronger than an eagle, and more beautiful than a kingfisher, it ruled the sky. It was more than a kite; it was a sky-fighter. A patang.

The sun had only just come up, and the desert shimmered with heat. I sat as comfortably as I could manage, in the shade of the rustling leaves of our great old banyan tree, beside my parents’ shrine of piled stones. Sat amongst my paint pots, brushes, and other materials, job finally done. I turned my patang slowly, savoring how the low sunlight shone through the multicolored tissue paper to cast a rainbow blanket over my lap.

The fiery red swirls gave it rage. It wouldn’t back down from its opponent, willing to take on anyone, anytime.

Next I’d painted blocks of gray for the earth, for power. A sky-fighter, a patang, must be strong.

I’d added blue meandering lines. Water was precious, but everyone knew that.

Finally, of course, wind. Soft brushstrokes of white for the wind. It was life itself, breath, laughter, secret whispers.

All it needed was a name, but that wasn’t up to me. I’d give it to—

There was a clatter from the hut. A banging, then a cry.

I put my kite down against the tree trunk. “Baba? What’s going on?”

“I can’t find my pants!”

“Try on top of your head!”

“Oye!” he cried, exasperated. “I’ll have none of your cheek, young lady! I am your grandfather and deserve respect! I need to— Ah. Never mind!”

It wasn’t the first time Baba had woken up, grabbed the nearest strip of cloth, and wound it around his head, thinking it was his turban.

The hut door crashed open, and Baba hopped out, tying up his pants while his turban dangled loosely around his bald head. “Stop dawdling, Nargis! Help me! What are you doing . . . Oh.” He picked up my kite and cast his expert eye over it. He pushed it in from the sides, testing the flexibility of the bamboo frame, letting it spring back into shape, peering close for any tears in the tissue paper. “Marvelous, a real patang. Got a name for it?”

“You know I only build them, Baba.”

“Of course, of course.” Baba scratched his chin as he gazed north. “The wind’s been blowing down from the Eyries all week. Perfect for kite season. Did you see the storm last night?”

“I saw a shooting star. Fell right out of the clouds.”

“You make a wish?” he asked as he struggled with his turban. “What’s wrong with this cloth?”

“Nothing. It’s your head that’s all out of shape.”

Baba grinned, exposing his few remaining teeth. “It’s my brain. Still expanding with all my deep thoughts! Anyway, did you? Make a wish?”

“Of course.”

“For what?” he asked.

“The usual. Rain.”

Baba snorted. “Rain? Here? Carry on wishing, girl.”

I squinted to get a better look at him. He had his medicine bag dangling from his bony shoulder. “You off somewhere?”

“Lalpani,” he said, rewrapping his turban around his head. “Pandit’s peach tree’s sick.”

“Our peach tree. He stole it from us. From Dad.”

“Nargis . . .”

“Look around you, Baba. Look where we live.”

“It’s easier for everyone if we live outside of Lalpani. We’ve got all we need here, haven’t we?”

I gazed around our small farm sullenly. The mud brick hut was so old, it sagged, and the palm fronds covering the roof needed replacing. I was constantly sweeping sand from the herb garden. The low stone wall did nothing to prevent the wind from blowing sand in from the desert that surrounded us. Before dawn I’d filled the gullies that fed our small vegetable patch, lifting bucket after bucket from the well, but the morning sun had already dried them out. The tomatoes were tiny, and the yellow patch of mustard was weed infested. “We deserve much more.”

He sighed. “One day you’ll have everything, I promise. No more patchwork shalwar kameezes. It’ll be saris of gold silk, and you’ll wear ruby earrings instead of those tin ones.”

“I like the noise these make.” I shook my head and let the earrings jangle.

Anyway, I didn’t want rubies. I wanted diamonds.

Diamonds that fell from the sky.

Rain.

I closed my eyes and turned my face upward, imagining the raindrops pummeling my skin, soaking me down to my bones.

Baba shook the dust off his sandals. “Why don’t you give your hair a quick brush? You always look as if . . . Hold on.” He narrowed his gaze suspiciously. “What’s that you’ve got wrapped round your head?”

“This? This is just for keeping my hair out of my eyes.”
 
“You must think I’ve got fungus for brains.” Baba grabbed the loose end and tugged it off. Hard.

“Ow, Baba!”

He waved the long twine object in front of my face. “A sling? How many times must we do this? I’m trying to make a respectable young lady out of you, Nargis!”

“Respectable, Baba? We’ll never be respectable!” I snatched the sling off him and wrapped it back in place, giving it an extra knot. “You wouldn’t recognize respectable even if it grew out of your big hairy ears! Which reminds me, they need trimming! Shall I get the clippers?”

“I like them hairy. And what do you need a sling for? It’d better not be for the birds! You know the law about harming birds! The Patels got fined a sack of rice when their cat killed a sparrow! A sparrow!”

“I use it to scare the birds off our garden, that’s all. Otherwise they’d eat all the seeds. I promise I miss. Or you could stand out there all day. That might work.”

“Why would I . . . Oh. A scarecrow. I see. That’s what you think of your venerable grandfather, is it?” His lower lip trembled as he wiped away nonexistent tears. “Oye, what did I do to deserve such a grandchild?”

“I’m just following your example, Baba.”

“So it’s my fault?” He smoothed out his bushy eyebrows. “I thought I heard singing earlier.”

“‘Mom’s Song,’ while I was watering the plants.” I gazed at the empty sky. Not a wisp of cloud. “One day it’ll work.”

He smiled at the memory. “Your mother had a voice sweeter than any nightingale! Can’t say the same about your father. Sounded as if he had a frog dying in his throat.”

“Then it’s good I inherited my voice from . . . Ribbit. Ribbit.” I coughed dramatically. “Sorry. It’s that frog again.”

Normally Baba would have laughed. Instead he chewed his mustache. He only did that when he was worried. He’d been doing it a lot lately.

“I’ll come along,” I continued. “Someone wants this patang.” I rolled to my side and picked up my crutch.

What’s it for, Daddy?

For you to find your way, Nargis.

It had been six years since the accident. I could barely remember it, but my right leg reminded me every day, from when I woke till when I settled into bed. Dad had known I’d need the crutch forever and had designed it cleverly, with a sleeve over the main wooden shaft that could be extended as I grew, and the handle doubling as a peg to hold it in place. I adjusted the new padding I’d stitched around the armpit piece and blew the dust out of the carvings decorating the wood.

Dad had loved carving. My shelf was still cluttered with wooden toys, my favorite a bird with flapping wings. The door, the frame around it, even the legs of the bed were decorated with swirls and mysterious patterns. I wrapped one finger at a time around the crutch handle and settled it under my left armpit. “Ready.”

“Good, good,” Baba replied vaguely, all the while chewing his mustache.

“It’ll be fine, Baba.”

He sighed. “It wasn’t fine last time.”

He’d been asked to heal one of the villagers’ fields, just a tiny patch of ground that was more stones than soil but had grown enough wheat to keep a family going. We still didn’t know what had gone wrong. The entire field had withered, right before our eyes, leaving Baba sick for a week, unable to eat or drink, his already scrawny frame turning skeletal. I’d tried every herb in the garden, but nothing had worked. I’d been terrified. I couldn’t let it happen again.

“I’ll do it,” I said.

“Huh?” Baba replied. “Do what?”

“Let me sing to Pandit’s peach tree. My song’s stronger than ever. The spirits are starting to listen.”

​Baba screwed up his eyes until they’d almost disappeared into his wrinkles. “Every time?”

“Yes. Mostly. More often than not.”

“Mostly is when it’s most dangerous, Nargis.”

I tried one last time to persuade him. “What’s the point of being able to command the elements if I never get the chance to do it? That dhal I cooked last night? I got the fire spirits working overtime! They were just wanting to sleep in the embers, but I gave them a few lines, and they were jumping everywhere.” I put my hand over my head. “This high!”

“‘Command,’ Nargis? We don’t command the elemental spirits. That’s not what spirit singing is about. A song is to delight, to charm. To touch hearts. The spirits of the earth, of the air, fire, and water only offer their help if we ask nicely. Never, ever try to command a spirit.”

I picked up the patang, dangling it from the crook of my little finger. Making it suddenly didn’t feel that special anymore. “I suppose.”

He smiled kindly, but it didn’t soften my disappointment. “Don’t be too much in a rush. Bad things happen when you rush. One day you’ll be as great as your father. Greater. A song will come, and it’ll change everything.” He gave the tips of his mustache a sharp twist. “Now let’s go be marvelous.”
 
The ground I wanted—needed—was flat, straight, and solid. The ground I had was anything but. My crutch constantly sank into the sand, each dip forcing another hiss from between my clenched teeth. It was only a mile between our small farm and Lalpani, but it was a long mile, with the worst saved till last, the great sandbank wall littered with broken bricks and half-buried rubble that surrounded the village, which I cursed every step of the way up and swore at every step of the way down.

Lalpani wasn’t big. Some scattered fields and twenty or so mud-brick huts, with a well and a dried-out river nearby. Cattle sat in the shade, too listless to flick away the flies that swarmed around their rumps, and mangy dogs panted in the heat. Not much came through here except the wind. Hot and parched by the long journey down from the Eyries and across the desert, that wind was alive today.

Every kite was a shard of bright, bold color against the blistering sky, with some painted with images of birds, butterflies, and—of course—garudas.

The winged warriors ruled us, taking our food as taxes and giving nothing in return. I didn’t understand why we, the Earthbound, admired them. Maybe it made serving them easier.

Kites darted and danced over the entire village, their paper bodies rustling loudly. Kids crowded every roof, eyes on the sky, directing their kites with deft tugs of their twine, cheering when they won, shrieking when they lost.

Sky fighting was a serious business.

The adults were busy, as usual. Repairing their huts, tending their animals, preparing meals on open fires, weaving carpets out of palm fronds. You worked, or you starved. I knew everyone, had helped most of them one way or another, but upon entering Lalpani, I didn’t even earn a smile.

Even after all this time, they were afraid. Moms pulled their children closer as we approached. A few touched their protective amulets and muttered prayers under their breath. I shuffled along, looking ahead and not at the scowls. “After all the times we’ve helped them, it doesn’t matter. I’m still just a witch.”

Baba shook his head. “A spirit singer. They just don’t understand.”

“We heal nature, Baba, and they still despise us. Why? They should be greeting us with garlands instead of this . . . hate. Doesn’t it bother you?”

Baba kicked a stone out of the way. “Since when did you care about the opinions of others?”

More often than I liked to admit.

“Ignore them,” said Baba, pointing ahead. “That’s why we’re here.”

The trees ahead looked like spindly old folk, frozen in a dance. As you got closer, they slowly revealed that their crooked limbs were branches laden with gem-like fruits, their leaves trembling in the hot breeze while sparrows, starlings, and blackbirds darted through the speckled shade. The true treasure of Lalpani.
 
Some villages, not many, might have a couple of date palms growing. Vaalipur had a papaya tree. Just the one, but it attracted merchants from a hundred miles away to trade.

Lalpani had an orchard.

Orange trees gently swayed as if dancing to a tune only they could hear. A gnarly mango stood with bowed branches weighed down by rich pickings. There were cherry trees and a few stout banana trees, while elegantly tall palm trees cast their leafy shade over goats nibbling at broken coconut husks. Gullies, almost as empty as ours, ran in neat rows and were fed by two shadoofs standing idle at either end.

We should have been rich, everyone here living in a palace from the wealth growing on those trees, but the orchard and every fruit was owned by one person. Pandit.

He waited in the shade of a silk parasol, drinking lassi from a frosted glass. He’d had his hair done in a fine, bright green-and-blue crest, more than six inches tall—it would have looked even taller if it hadn’t been drooping. The dye streamed turquoise down his otherwise shaven scalp and into the folds of his fleshy neck. The thousands of feathers on his ankle-length cloak shimmered in the sunlight. The brilliant blue of the kingfisher, the vivid green of parakeets, the scarlet of toucans, countless more that must have been imported from far, far away.
 
A peacock. Someone who mimicked the ways of the garudas. It was a joke, really. Birds that can’t fly. But maybe the joke was on us. Pandit owned the orchard, making him the richest man in the village. Peacocks might be useless, but they were proud.

“Namaste, Pandit Sahib,” said Baba, palms pressed together. “I’d touch your feet, but I’m not sure I’d be able to get up afterward. It’s these old bones, you see.”

I wiggled the toes of my crooked right foot. “I can’t kneel. So sorry.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” Pandit sneered. “Just get a move on. My orchard is dying as you flap your mouth.”

“Your orchard?” I scowled at his ridiculous dye-stained face. “My dad planted every one of those seeds. His song created the orchard. Every single apricot, mango, orange, and peach over there is ours. You stole it from us.”

Pandit’s eyes darkened. “Payment for your debts. You know the law.”

“Talon Law, you mean.”

“What other law is there?” Pandit replied. “You spoil her. She needs to be reminded of who she is.”

“Oh, Nargis knows exactly who she is,” said Baba. Then he cleared his throat. “It’s good you called me. I can feel the peach tree’s pain from here. I’ll have her ripening in no time. Peaches fit for Alamut.”

“Just get on with it,” Pandit snapped.
  
Baba nudged me along, and we entered the orchard. There wasn’t much water trickling along the gullies feed- ing the trees, and it was scummy with yellow froth and smelled foul. I wrinkled my nose. “The water’s contaminated. That’s why the peach tree’s sick.”

Baba frowned. “Soon it won’t just be the peach tree. Everyone uses the well.”

Year by year the water level got lower and lower, and the water got more and more polluted. It didn’t rain here, hadn’t in centuries, and the underground rivers were finally drying up. How long before Lalpani became another abandoned village, slowly disappearing under the sands?

“Oye, Nargis!”

Arjuna darted through the trees and skidded to a halt in front of us, grinning. He stared at the kite. “Now, that’s the best one yet.”

I looked him up and down. “You look ridiculous.”

“And namaste to you too.” He turned his head from side to side, proudly displaying his own dyed crest, emerald green with yellow streaks. His cloak only came down to his waist, the feathers made up of wrinkled paper and limp cloth. Pandit didn’t allow his servants real feathers. “I think I look amazing. Enough about fashion, a subject you know nothing about,” said Arjuna, reaching for the patang. “Let’s have a closer look.”
 
I blocked him with my crutch. “Keep your sticky fingers off. Where are the mangoes you promised me?”

“Mangoes?” he replied vaguely, his attention focused on the patang.

“Six of your ripest. That was the deal.”

“Six?” he cried. “But I thought we were friends!”

I swung the patang back and forth. “You want me to make it ten?”

“Six, then. Give it here.”

I handed it over, and Arjuna whistled softly as he tested the frame. “I would have paid ten.”

Baba gestured over his shoulder. “Get going. The wind’s perfect today.”

I shook my head. “I’d better stay with you, Baba. Just in case.”

“I don’t need a nanny, Nargis. Now go.”

I was just trying to help, but you needed to be confident when summoning the elemental spirits. Me standing over him was only going to undermine him. Baba gave his mustache tip an extra twist. “It’ll be fine.” Then he headed off to the peach tree.

“We’ll fly it up on the wall,” said Arjuna, practically skipping.

I groaned. He wanted me to march all the way back up? “That ridiculous wall? They should have knocked it down years ago.”
 
“That wall is to protect the village, Nargis.”

“How? Our enemies come down from the sky.”

Arjuna sighed. “Garudas aren’t our enemies.”

“No, they’re our masters, which is worse.”

“Have you ever seen a garuda up close?” he asked. “I have. I’m not talking about the Raptor Lords caste, but once we had a kingfisher garuda visit on business. Gave Pandit one of his feathers as a gift. They’re not so different from us, not really. Apart from the wings, of course.”

“That’s a pretty big difference. And what about their claws? Their beaks?”

“Only a few have beaks. Most have faces just like ours,” Arjuna answered. We’d bickered about garudas for years, and it never got anywhere. “Another well’s run dry. Pandit had Hassan dig until he hit rock. Nothing.”

“Baba will find you some water. Oh, before I forget.” I pulled a small paper packet from my sash and handed it to him. “Give this to Bina. Tell her to mix it with her chai before bed. Only a pinch. It’s Baba’s dream root, and it’s a lot stronger than the sawdust the others sell. Too much, and she’ll sleep through the whole week.”

Arjuna nodded as he tucked it away, then turned his attention back to the orchard. “How long do you think it’ll take?”

“You can’t rush this. Bad things happen.”

“Lalpani needs those peaches. I’ve got—”
 
“Arjuna! Where are those tools you promised me?” It was Hassan, the cow herder. “The shed’s not going to build itself.”

“Where’s that bucket of milk you promised me?” said Arjuna. “Tomorrow, Hassan!”

“Tools?” I asked. “Where did you get those from, or shouldn’t I ask?”

He winked. I shouldn’t ask.

The baker gave him a naan fresh from the oven. After hesitating for a moment, the baker handed me one. Lakshmi waved Arjuna to her door and slipped him a letter she wanted delivered, and a rupee to make sure no one knew to whom.

Arjuna was handsome, charming, and friendly, every- thing I wasn’t. Why we were friends was a mystery to the whole of Lalpani. We were the same age, give or take a few months, and had known each other for years, pretty much since soon after he’d started serving Pandit, after Arjuna’s parents had sold him into service. Ten years for a few sacks of grain. That’s why Pandit was so rich. Desperate people make desperate bargains, so Pandit made sure he paid as little as possible for as much as possible.

But Arjuna hadn’t let that stop him. Poor peasant servant that he was, everyone loved him.

Almost everyone.

Krish waited for us in the middle of the street, along with brutish Angad. He twirled his kite on his finger. “Why aren’t you working, Arjuna? The latrines need cleaning.”

Krish was Pandit’s one and only son, and everyone knew that one day he’d be in charge of everything. It didn’t matter if Arjuna did all the work. Krish collected all the profit.

All that joy, all that confidence, just evaporated. Arjuna lowered his gaze. “Your father gave me the day off. It’s the beginning of the rainy season. Everyone flies kites this week.”

Krish searched the sky. “Rainy season? Where are the clouds, then?”

I stepped up between them. “The wind’s blowing from the mountains. That’s when the rains used to come.”

Krish smirked. “Ah, Monsoon. She’s just a fairy tale.”

“She was real,” I said. “But the garudas killed her.”

Krish laughed as he turned to Angad. “That’s Nargis for you. Everything’s the garudas’ fault. She stubs her toe, blames a garuda. Can’t find her crutch, a garuda swooped down in the middle of the night and stole it.” Then he turned his attention back to Arjuna, and the kite. “That kite’s way too nice for a peasant like you. Give it to me. Now."

I’d spent days making that kite, for Arjuna. Krish was not going to have it. I stuck my crutch out at Krish’s chest. “It’s mine.” 

Krish paused, and frowned. “Everyone knows you don’t fly.”

“Everyone’s wrong,” I said. I gazed at his bat-winged patang and snorted. “Now get lost before I tear that rag of yours to shreds.”

“You really think you can take on Rakshasa? The Demon?” Krish snarled.

“Of course.”

The snarl became a smirk. “You’re on, witch.”

I raised my crutch. Krish flinched. Then he narrowed his gaze. “Go on, I dare you. Hit me and see what happens.”

My arm was trembling with the urge to do exactly that, but nothing good would come out of it. He wasn’t the only one who called me a witch, but he was the only one who’d say it to my face.

I lowered my crutch, screwing the tip solidly into the ground.

They strode off. Then Arjuna turned to me and sighed. “That was close.”

“There’s a better way of teaching Krish some respect,” I said. “By ripping his patang out of the sky.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“How do you think?” Kites crowded the sky, everyone playing and fighting. It was a good wind. “I’m going to cheat.”