In the Shadow of the Banyan Read Online Free PDF

wouldn’t see what I saw. He wouldn’t believe me. When he was ready, I would show him this secret world, where all he thought he had lost was in fact only hidden—transformed. And only then would he discern the invisible, the magical, only then would he find among these flowers he cared for a butterfly he had once loved.

three
    P apa came running through the gate, calling out, “The war is over, the war is over!” He jumped up and down, like a schoolboy. I’d never seen this boisterous side of him. “No more fighting! No more war! The Revolutionary Army is here!”
    “What? Who?” Tata demanded. “You mean the Khmer Rouge?”
    “Yes, and everyone is cheering for them!”
    “Are you mad?”
    “The streets are full of well-wishers,” Papa explained, unable to curb his excitement. “Even our soldiers are welcoming them. They’re waving white handkerchiefs and throwing flowers!”
    “Impossible.” Tata shook her head. “This can’t be true.”
    “You have to go out there.” Papa remained exuberant. “The smiles, the cheers, the shouts of greeting!” He picked up Radana from the teak settee and started spinning with her, singing, “It’s over, it’s over, the fighting is over!” He grabbed Mama and kissed her full on the lips in front of us, in front of Grandmother Queen. Mama pulled away, mortified. She took Radana from him.
    I tugged at Papa’s shirtsleeve and asked, “Will Milk Mother come back for sure then?” It was New Year’s Day, and she was due back from her visit to her family on the other side of the city. I had been worried about her being outside the safe enclosure of our walls, but now that the war was over, there wasn’t the risk of her not returning.
    “Yes!” He lifted me up and kissed my forehead. He looked around the courtyard, beaming. “All is well again.”
    •  •  •
    In expectation of Milk Mother’s return, the servant girls were granted an immediate leave for the holiday, and given that there would be no celebration, with Om Bao gone, they could have longer than usual. Once they departed, I took my copy of the Reamker, a Cambodian adaptation of the Ramayana, and went to wait for Milk Mother by the gate, even though it was still morning and she would most likely return in the evening. But just in case she returned sooner, she would see how glad I was to have her back. I chose a spot under the hanging bougainvillea where it was shady and cool and began to read once more from the beginning:
In time immemorial there existed a kingdom called Ayuthiya. It was as perfect a place as one could find in the Middle Realm. But such a paradise was not without envy. In the Underworld, there existed a parallel kingdom called Langka, a flip-mirror image of Ayuthiya. There, darkness prevailed. Its inhabitants, known as the rakshasas, fed on violence and destruction, grew ever more powerful by the evil and suffering they inflicted. Lord of the rakshasas was Krung Reap, with fangs like elephant tusks and four arms bearing the four weapons of war—the club, the bow, the arrow, and the trident. He, among all the beings of the three realms, most coveted Ayuthiya. Banned from it, he sought to destroy this paradise, creating all sorts of havoc and disturbance, shaking the mountain on which Ayuthiya rested, sending reverberations that could be felt all the way to the Heavens above. The gods, weary of Krung Reap’s vices and villainy, beseeched Vishnu to fight the king of the rakshasas and restore balance to the cosmos. Vishnu agreed, and, assuming an earthly incarnation, descended as Preah Ream, the devaraja who would inherit Ayuthiya and bring it everlasting peace. But before this happened, the cries of battle resounded, blood was spilled, bodies of men and monkeys and deities alike littered the ground.
    I had pored over the words countless times now, and this last bit— bodies of men and monkeys and deities alike —still unsettled me. I imagined a scene of such carnage that you