Empire of Bones Read Online Free PDF Page A

a decided, once and for all, that destiny had nothing to do with it.
    "No," she said. "I don't believe in karma. I don't think any of it—your position, your caste, the boy's illness—is your fault. You're not responsible for this." Anger rang in her ears. "But the system is."
    She told the widow they could stay at the ashram as long as they wanted, free of charge. Her father protested, but Jaya wouldn't listen. And the widow was only the beginning. Disregarding her father's pleas, she began to house more and more people at the ashram, and put money into adding more buildings. She read Gandhi, and Marx. She read about the green revolution of the twentieth century. And she started to have ideas.
    "Think what we could do," she urged her father one day as they sat in the flower-filled hall of the ashram.
    "Look at the others. Shrimati Avati. Rama Krishna. Those Mumbaikars running Rajneesh's old outfit.
    They publish books . People buy them in London, even. New York. And they're no more than showmen, like we were. If I start speaking out against the caste system… Just think what we could accomplish."
    At that point the first visitors of the day came in. Jaya and her father hastily composed themselves into smiling serenity before anyone noticed anything, and the consultation of the oracle began. But throughout the day a thought kept return-ing to her, fueled by what she later realized to be adolescent idealism. /
    know I'm not a goddess, but maybe the gods are real and put me here… Maybe 1 can make a difference .
    She stood in front of the mirror, gazing at her grave face: thin, with the bones too prominent and her eyes like wells be-neath the arched brows. She wondered, as she always did, whether she resembled her mother. A not-quite Dravidian face: sharp northern bones and dark southern skin. Her face looked fierce.
    She found that it was frighteningly easy to become Joan of
    Arc, or Phoolan Devi. When she spoke out, questioning the injustices of the restored caste system, questioning the ancient hierarchies on which Bharat was based, it was as though her words were a flame racing through the dry grass, setting everything on fire. She wasn't saying anything new; the sys-tem had been questioned many times before, and changed, and changed back again. But now it was as though everyone was waiting for a new figurehead. A stream of people queued at the gates of the ashram: ardent young men; angry dispos-sessed widows; civil servants who had lost their positions to the upper castes in the last stages of restoration; Western ideal-ists. Before Jaya knew it, she had an army.
    When she first saw that some of the visitors were carrying guns, Jaya went into her room and slammed the door. Her heart was beating fast, pounding against her ribs, and there was an acid dryness in her throat. This is where it starts , she thought. This is where we go to war . Doubts welled up, and she couldn't afford the luxury of reflecting on them. The voice was echoing in her head in time to the beat of her heart, when there was a sharp knock on the door.
    "Jaya?" It was her father.
    "Go away," Jaya shouted.
    "Open the door. You have to come out. They're waiting for you." He was trying not to sound impatient, but she could hear the threat in his voice: You started this. Don't weaken now .
    Taking a deep breath, Jaya stepped onto the terrace that overlooked the courtyard, and the crowd fell silent. She didn't know what to say. Buying time, she raised her hand as if in benediction. The garnet winked in the sunlight and she thought again of her mother, who had despised tricks. The day seemed to grow darker. It was as though everyone was holding their breath.
    "Jaya Devi!" a young man shouted from the crowd: Victory Goddess . Jaya froze, seeing a fierce bearded face and a clenched fist swung up in imitation of her own. The young man was easily a head taller than the rest of the crowd. "We're ready to march for you! We're ready to fight!"
    Ready to die . Jaya