Reclaimed

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

My grandmother was born there. As a child, she used to walk barefoot along the Talpi river, collecting lotus root plucked from the shallows. She and her father pickled mango with the brine from the ocean once every summer, jarring enough to last them all year. She used to wake before dawn, sneaking away from her parent’s watchful gaze to climb up to Yana Peak with my grandfather– both of them barely fourteen but deeply in love– to see the sunrise together. It was Amma's favorite place; she wanted to be buried there.

That is no longer an option.

Instead, I watch as she is lowered into her final rest a hundred miles from home. I was born here, in the caves of Mount Andhera. I walked barefoot once when I was seven and limped home with a gash on my foot from a rusty nail. In the few times I’ve left the tunnels I haven’t gone far enough to see the ocean and at night I dream of what mango might taste like. Most days, I am uncertain if I rise before the sun because I cannot see the sky.

The stale air is drying the tears on my cheeks. It was some combination of old lungs, poor nutrition, and the dust, the Healer told me. There was nothing he could do but make her comfortable, which is ridiculous, because I don’t think anyone down here has ever been comfortable. There is an arm around my shoulders– Amir, probably. He’s been a constant presence in my house since yesterday and a tremendous help with arranging the burial when all I wanted to do was collapse in my sheets and sorrow and never resurface. He’s always been exactly where he is now– on my right, supporting my weight as my legs threaten to give out.

“Neena?”

I look up at him. Amir is squeezing my arm gently, and he says, not unkindly, “We should go.”

I turn back to the grave, where the shroud of my Grandmother is no longer visible beneath the dirt. Wood is a precious resource here, not to be wasted on the dead– which is fine. Amma would have preferred to be closer to the earth, anyways. I just wish she was somewhere you could see the sun– or at least resting beside family instead of strangers.

I take a deep breath and let Amir lead me away.

__________________

I expected him to deposit me in my empty house, embarrassingly. It goes to show that he knows me better than I give him credit for, because he leads me to the Kumar household instead. His mother is dicing onions for a kulcha, and when we walk in, she shakes the water off her hands and wraps me in a warm hug.

I bend down into her embrace. She's a short woman. I can see from this angle her hair is still dark at the roots, which she claims is a miracle after raising four boys, but I think it's actually just good genetics. Her arms remind me of my mother.

“Hi, Auntie,” I manage to choke out.

“Oh Beta,” she squeezes tighter, “I’m so sorry.”

“She was seventy-two,” I sigh, “It was going to happen sometime.”

She pulls back to look at me, her hands gentle on my arms. I know that I look even rougher than I feel: my tear tracks have likely collected dust from the trek here, I can’t remember if I managed to brush out my unruly curls this morning, and my cuticles have been chewed to oblivion. I don’t know what she is thinking because I cannot look her in the eye.

“Here’s some chai,” she says finally, “And I’ll make you something to eat.”

Warmth pools in my gut before I even take a sip of the mug she’s just handed me. Kaia Auntie prefers to express her love to your stomach, not your ears. Amma used to do the same.

My gratitude catches in my throat, so I just force a smile and take a sip. A minute later and I find myself curling up on their futon, Amir placing a blanket around my shoulders, treating me as gently as spun glass. He settles next to me. The mug heats up my fingertips that have been numb since I woke up and the vapors of onions and garlic caramelizing on the stove awakens my appetite.

Amir and his mom must share the compassion gene. My parents were born with it too, except their bleeding hearts led them elsewhere.

The back door clatters open to reveal Amir’s oldest brother, Devon. He looks like a carbon copy of Amir, or rather, Amir does of him. All of the Kumar boys are blessed with ramrod legs, a thick head of black curls, and caramel skin. There’s a spark in his dark eyes which is painfully familiar– it’s one of those days.

“Mom,” He rushes in, “Did you hear the news from the Front?”

Kaia doesn’t even look up, just shakes her head over her rolling pin.

“They’re saying that the last push went well. They’re headed towards the opening of the Valley,” Devon persuades, “They're signing up new recruits again in the square.”

Kaia slams down the kulcha onto the pan to cook, the tawa rocking back and forth with the new weight, “No.”

Amir looks over at me with a smirk. Devon is the type of man who can talk his way into or out of anything to anyone except his mother. Amir usually doesn’t like arguing, but he relishes in his brother getting shot down, which has been happening more and more often even though there’s only one real point of contention between Devon and Kaia Auntie. I bite back a laugh.

“Jai and Aarti have already signed-”

“I don’t care, I’m not Jai’s or Aarti’s mom. I’m yours, and I say no.” she says, in that matter-of-fact tone that only mothers can manage. Her next words are familiar to me, “A patch of dirt is not worth your life.”

They’re the same words Amma used to say to Mom and Dad, when they spoke of duty and birthrights and home. They were both little when they were forced away from the Valley, too young to remember much. My dad reminisced over the sound of cicadas lulling him to sleep. My mom remembers floating in the Talpi river, staring up at the clouds. Those were their only memories of home. Amma was the one who had lived there her whole life, the one who felt the loss most poignantly, and yet, she was the one trying to convince them to move on.

It helped that everything she loved about the Valley was gone. The river had been boiled, leaving a dusty mineral trail behind. The sunrises had been blotted out with smoke along with the rest of the sky. The mango trees, the lotus roots, the birds– they had all burned to a crisp alongside the love of her life and two of her children. What was the point in fighting over ash? The Valley she remembered only lives in stories, and soon only in the stories of people long dead.

My parents weren’t so easily convinced, ignorant of the word futile and fluent in stubbornness. When I was nine, they finally wore Amma down, told her that they weren’t going to sit back for any longer while the land of our people was ravaged. It was the prospect of bringing an end to those that had murdered her children and husband that finally convinced her. They’d left me in my grandmother’s tender care and went off to join the fight alongside most of their generation. My parents were the same age when they returned to the Valley as Amma was when she left, which I think is poetic on my most altruistic days and infuriating on my most selfish. Amma would say they were insane, but rarely with any animosity.

“So what?” Devon shoots back, “Are we just supposed to lay down and die under the ground like rats?”

“You’re supposed to live a long and happy life here,” she starts rolling out some more dough, “Why do you care, anyway? You’ve never stepped foot in the Valley.”

Neither has Kaia Auntie. Her mother had fled the Valley seven months pregnant, so she’s just young enough that she’s like the rest of us from Andhera, born under the ground. There’s no telling why Devon cares more than her or why my parents cared more than Amma. The years spent in our homeland don’t seem to translate on how eager a person is to reclaim it. It’s more political these days: we debate on whether the bloodshed is worth it and everyone has a strong opinion on the matter. I’ve kept quiet mostly, because if Amma heard me championing my parent’s cause, she would have beat me with a sandal. But secretly, I can’t help but feel wistful. I long for a life that I have never experienced: one that was stolen from me, my grandmother, and my people.

“Because it was taken from us!” Devon exclaims, “If you think we’re just going to let the Savaar roll in and rob us of the land we’ve lived on for hundreds of generations, then–”

“Dragons, Devon. They have dragons.” Kaia says, as if Devon is unaware, “What good would you be against a dragon?”

“I can fight just fine–”

“Are you fireproof? Come, put your hand on the tawa. Let’s see.” She takes her bare hand and flips the onion-stuffed bread, her fingertips brushing against the hot pan, “No? You don’t want to?”

Devon looks exasperated, “We’re winning, Mom.”

“If they were winning, they wouldn’t need new recruits all the time,” Kaia Auntie reminds him.

“Neena’s parents joined a decade ago, and they haven’t kicked the bucket yet.”

“Devon Kumar!” Kaia exclaims, “Apologize!” He whips around and notices me for the first time.

“Sorry, Neena,” he says.

“It’s fine,” I respond, “I’d be more upset if you’d said they were dead.”

“Still haven’t heard anything yet?”

“No,” I sigh, “I’m sure things are just chaotic right now with the last push. They’ll write back as soon as they can.”

“I’m sorry about your grandmother,” he says. “Amir said it was pneumonia?”

“No,” I spit out.

“Isn’t that what the Healer said?” Amir asks.

“It wasn’t the pneumonia that killed her,” the numbness fades for the first time since Amma’s death, leaving hot rage, “it was living in this damned place.”

It feels like that’s all there is now: anger. I’ve never really hated Mount Andhera until it killed the woman who raised me. Now the claustrophobic tunnels, the town square cloaked in darkness, the dust– oh, God, the dust– it all just makes me furious. Which is a bit illogical, because it’s not as if Mount Andhera is conscious or malicious. It just exists, and if it didn’t, then who knows what would have happened to the refugees of the Valley? Maybe I never would have been born. Maybe I owe Andhera my life. The thought doesn’t make me any less angry.

Kaia Auntie tuts, and hands me a plate. I tear into the kulcha to shut myself up. It sizzles against the roof of my mouth.

“See, Mom: even Neena agrees,” Devon argues, “We can’t live like this.”

“And yet we do,” Kaia says with finality and pushes a plate into his hands. He eats his meal, sullenly.

__________________

It’s another night before I arrive back at what was once Amma’s house. Kaia Auntie insisted that I stay the night, and I had a fitful rest on their futon before giving up on sleep entirely. All of the talk about the warfront has seeped into my slumber– I have nightmares of a burning jungle, dry riverstones scorching the soles of my bare feet, and choking on ash. I hear Amma’s rattling cough just before I wake up in a cold sweat.

I leave before breakfast, winding my way through nearly pitch-black tunnels with ease. There are a few people scuttling around this morning– their figures lit up only by the oil lamps that line main street. As I walk, I kick at the dirt beneath my feet until it makes a cloud, hack, and then decide to channel my anger on more solid things. I am careful with my steps the rest of the way.

I turn the last corner and stop in my tracks. There is a man at my door. There’s a recognizable insignia on his shoulder bag and he has a letter in his hand. Thank God. I smile as I skip up the steps.

“Do you have something for Neena Reddy?” I ask, already knowing the answer is yes.

“No,” the man says, “I'm looking for Ishana Reddy. Any relation?”

I frown. My parents don’t usually write Amma alone. Normally, they cram two letters into one envelope addressed to me. “She passed away a couple days ago, I’m her granddaughter.”

“Oh,” he says, looking awkward, “Sorry about that. And this.”

He hands me the envelope. The paper is high-quality and the address is written in an unfamiliar hand. It is not from my parents.

“Thank you,” I say, and he leaves, mercifully.

I stand in my kitchen alone as I tear open the envelope and my hands shake and my heart drops to my stomach and my life changes irreparably.

__________________

“This is insane, Neena.” Amir’s voice is calm outwardly, but I know that I’m scaring him. I try not to let it deter me. I take the form from the enlistment officer, who looks far too eager for his line of work. He doesn’t appear perturbed by Amir’s discouragement: I realize pleading at the enlistment booth is probably so common it’s become standard practice.

“Missing, Amir.” I say as I sign my name, proud that I only hesitated for a second, “They’re missing.”

He winces as the pen hits paper and even more at the way Neena Reddy looks on line twenty-seven. Soon his face is all scrunched up, “That doesn’t make this any less insane.”

“‘I’m aware.”

He’s tried to stop me every step of the way from Amma’s house to the square. He’d tried threatening to tell on me to Kaia Auntie, tried blocking my path, and now he’s trying to do the impossible: talking me out of it. In the hour since the letter was delivered I’ve thought of nothing else. Both Amir and I know in our bones he won't be able to.

“You could die, Neena,” he says honestly.

“What’s the difference, Amir?” I turn to look up at him reading over the letter for the fourth time, “It can’t be worse than living in the dark and waiting to die. They’re the last family I have left, and I can’t go back to that empty house, anyway.”

Devon wasn’t lying and neither was I. Nothing can live like this, swathed in dust and buried from the sun. It’s a miracle my grandmother lasted forty years down here, because after only half of that, I’m suddenly at my limit. I realize that maybe I haven’t been given a reason to join the fight, but rather an excuse, and I feel guilt wash over me.

“Your Amma wouldn’t want this,” he’s only telling the truth, and yet a flare of irritation runs through me. The guilt is tucked away to make space.

“Amma isn’t here to want anything, anymore,” I snap, “She can’t stop me.”

“But I can,” he crosses his arms over his chest.

I try desperately to take his threat seriously. I must have failed, because he takes one look at my face and knows how hilarious I find the idea.

“What? I totally can!” Amir protests and then immediately retracts, “Okay, maybe not physically, but I can definitely talk you out of it.”

I laugh, “How’s that going for you?”

“Not well,” he admits.

"Do you need Devon as backup?" I tease.

"Are you kidding?" He jokes, "Devon would just sign with you; I'd end up having to convince you both. And then what would I tell Mom?"

I shake my head and jam my finger at the letter in his hands, “You read it just like me: We are unable to spare the manpower to launch a search–"

"Neena, that doesn't necessarily mean-"

I raise my voice and talk over him, "--and rescue operation at this time to locate Nikhil and Leela Reddy.” I recite the sentence verbatim, the words seared into my memory, “Someone needs to look for them, and Command isn’t going to. What else am I supposed to do?”

“So what’s the plan, then?” He asks me, “Enlist to get to the Front, interrogate their battalion and follow their trail into untold peril?”

I stare at him, jaw agape, “Pretty much, yeah.” I don't tell him that I hadn't thought of anything past enlist.

He looks at me intently, “And it has to be you?”

“Who else cares?” I scoff, “and who else is dumb enough to go out there?”

“Me, I guess.” Amir grins, snatching the form from my hands and deftly scrawls his name beneath my chicken-scratch, signing his own death warrant, “I’m not letting you go it alone, Neena.”

“Now you’re being insane,” I gasp, “Your mom is going to kill you. And then me.”

He laughs, “Not if the dragons get us first.”