The Storytelling Maiden

Who knew Blythe Danner could make such good blueberry muffins? She seems so refined, I can barely imagine her in a kitchen at all! Yet, these were some of the best blueberry muffins I’ve ever tasted. The recipe can be found here.

She was good at telling stories.

She was her father Asoka’s great pride.

“Sit the girl in the corner near the burner with the frankincense and the myrrh and stories will pour out of her like water,” he said.

His eyes were dark under heavy, romantic lids. Good, kind eyes. They believed him.

Asoka and his daughter Tulasi-Dharshan weren’t from there. They had traveled for days – weeks even. Through deserts, taigas, the great vastness of the country. They looked different. Asoka’s beard was not curled up at the bottom, but was cut blunt. He didn’t wear a robe, just a plain kaftan of cotton, cut loose. But still he wore his kalpak. Tulasi-Dharshan was smaller than their own girls, slender in body like a boy. Unlike their girls, in their flagrant colors, she wore only white, all white from her tiny canvas shoes to her wide, easy pants and her tunic. Even the embroidery on her vest was white, not silver. White on white. Her hair was short and soft and black.

They didn’t know what to do with her. They had no storytellers. They’d never heard of storytellers, other than those who walked around villages with news and songs. But stories told by a little girl? Alone? No. Asoka closed his eyes and nodded. He held up a finger.
“I will show,” he said.

And then:
“Sit girl in corner…”

First they put her among the rug braiders. Near the incense, like Asoka had said. The women and children began their braiding, when suddenly the girl opened her mouth and out of it, in a nasal, monotonous voice, stories began threading the air. One more peculiar than the next. Intoxicating. And their braiding took on a different shape. Their bodies moved. They swayed in rhythm with her stories; they braided them into their rugs. The darker stories: Deep maroon, rich browns and golds in big dramatic constellations. The lighter stories: Pale blue dots like spring rain, jade green splashes like reeds. And all the while, their bodies moving. And the heavy scent of incense.

When Asoka came to collect his daughter, her voice closed shut like a clam, and up her arms went around his neck. Her mouth opened in a big cat-like yawn, and they marveled at how young she was. The foreman, who had seen the swiftness with which his braiders worked, how the stories had added beauty to their work, tried in vain to give Asoka a coin.

“No, no,” he said.

Tulasi-Dharshan’s stories belonged to everyone. They were not for sale.

Next, they put her among the potters. Again the same advice from Asoka:
“Sit girl close to incense.”

And after that, the silk painters. And so on.

They were wont to be on the move. They were going to leave, but Asoka suddenly fell ill. Some disease from the water. He lay still as still can be and life itself, or so Tulasi-Dharshan thought afterwards, held its breath.

After Asoka’s death they turned on her. The lack of protection made her vulnerable. They began questioning her. They began questioning what they’d seen in her. Why didn’t her father take the coin offered? Why were they traveling around like so? Who were they anyway? From where? They no longer saw the strange beauty she’d helped put into their rugs, their pottery, and their silk.

They had not counted on her being so obstinate. They said:
“We don’t want you around.”

She sat there quiet and stubborn like a mule. They called it “arrogance”. Her jutting chin they called “stupid pride”. They wanted nothing to do with her, yet would not leave her alone. Constant mockery.

Early one morning, when they were still asleep, she packed hers and Asoka’s belongings and saddled their camel.

“No more stories,” she decided.

“No more stories!” Into the leather satchel went Asoka’s kaftan.

“No more stories!” In went his crackowes.

“No more stories!”

She promised herself. Again and again she promised herself that morning. Maybe she cried a little. Then she swung herself up on the camel.

It was still dark when she left. But shortly she rode into the sun, which was big and red as the insides of a pomegranate.

She never kept her promise.