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A Novel
by Melody Razak
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Prologue
Lahore, Pakistan, May 1948
In a makeshift sling across her chest, she holds a sleeping baby. A swaddled baby who drinks in her mother's scent, the promise of milk, and moves her mouth in quiet sucks like tight petals blooming.
In the dark corridor, she slips a hand into the sling, grips through the cotton the steel of a paring knife. Next to the knife is a vial of rosewater, next to the vial, a newspaper twist of turmeric.
She wishes she hadn't promised. Only, the birth had been so hard, with the old stitches unravelling, and the girl had thought she would surely die. She had not known that the child pressed to her chest could be so warm.
She clutches the baby now and walks outside, stands on the garden path. It is raining.
I was not expecting you, says the girl to the rain.
I'm here for you, says the rain. I'm not supposed to be here at all. This will confuse everyone.
Thank you for coming.
The rain is as good as her word. Hot rainwater falls so fast and thick, she can barely open her eyes. Puddles of mud swell in every hole and dent.
The hibiscuses are flowering. She has waited nine months to see them open, and now that they have, she walks past them, doesn't see the petals like ripped hearts beckoning. Misses in the dark the red warning.
She walks confidently. Relishes the smell of wet earth and knows the path. She is not afraid of the dark. The rain pushes her forwards. She lets it take her by the hand, by the elbow.
You should sing to her, you know, says the rain. It will help with the rebirth.
Yes. Sing, says the wind just arrived.
What should I sing?
Sing the ancient myths. Sing to Kali. Sing to us.
She presses her lips to the baby's head, in a low voice sings a poem that Ma had sung to her when she was small. She holds the baby closer. Once, there was a sister, she had sung to her too, swaddled her in white cotton with embroidered birds across the folds. When no one was looking, she had fed the baby sister Nestlé straight from the tin, licked sweet condensed milk from the spoon.
Yesterday, the mali gave her a small lump of opium. Crumble this, he said, into the milk and feed it to her in a baby's bottle. I can't bear that she might suffer.
The girl nodded slowly, throat tight and eyes burning.
The mali was as gentle in his ministrations as if the baby were his, as if the baby were theirs. He stroked the baby's cheeks, her nose, her petal mouth, her tiny hands and feet, the hollow of her downy head.
Except that he didn't. The baby was in the zenana and he, untouchable servant, was not allowed in the big house.
The girl walks past the guava tree, now bereft of fruit. The leaves whisper and rustle. She will not listen to them. Those leaves will try to dissuade her. She walks past the dark of the mali's hut. The palm frond door is closed.
At the end of the garden, she sits down in the wet dirt beneath the mango tree, its boughs heavy with fruit that is almost achingly ready. She is thoughtfully tender. Doesn't want to make a mistake. She unties the sling. Lays the swaddled baby on the wet earth, uncorks the vial, and douses her with rosewater. Dips her finger into the powdered turmeric and smudges it across her daughter's forehead. Yellow to repel the evil eye, rosewater to claim the goddess's good grace.
The girl unsheathes the knife. Stolen from the kitchen along with the turmeric. It smells of yesterday's sliced onions and the cumin that was crushed to dust with the width of the blade. She should have washed it. That the knife is dirty, that she did not think to clean it, upsets her and her eyes begin to swell.
It's all right, says the rain. Put the knife down. I will wash it for you. Pick a mango leaf off the ground. Rub the leaf between your fingers to release the oils. Use the leaf to wipe the knife. The oils will smell sweet, and the knife will smell sweet, and the blood too will smell sweet when the blade cuts through the skin.
Excerpted from Moth by Melody Razak. Copyright © 2022 by Melody Razak. Excerpted by permission of Harper. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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