April 4, 1883

"This is it, Raj. You're going down."

"Me? Do you need spectacles? 'Cause from where I'm sitting, your arm is the one 'going down.'"

Baljeet glared at me from across the weathered wooden table, and I grinned. We were in the middle of a classic game, one that men of all ages used to display their superior strength and muscle power, and one that women, especially ones like Mishti, rolled their eyes at in disgust.

Arm wrestling – the greatest sport known to man.

At seventeen, we had both outgrown our childish games of hide-and-seek and harassing members of the female species.

Well, mostly.

Even then, the temptation was at times too great to resist. I had passed the stage of sticking frogs in people's underclothes, but there were still a few ladies – namely Mishti – that I loved poking with a stick.

"N-no, Raja," Baljeet muttered breathlessly. He was practically panting, and a thin bead of perspiration had broken out across his forehead. I could even see the muscles in his body tense up due to the strain, sort of reminding me of an ox pulling a plow.

"I'm f-finally going to w-win," he whispered hoarsely.

I flashed him a lopsided grin. We were fighting it out on the orphanage's kitchen table with Mishti being our only human audience. Not that she was paying much attention. She was trying to cook supper, occasionally throwing a morsel to the old dog lying at our feet, both of them doing their best to ignore our little dual.

"Forget it, Jeet," I responded coolly, sounding as though the whole thing was boring me to death. Our arms were still at a ninety degree angle, but it was obvious that Baljeet was almost worn out. While he was sweating and straining, his other arm gripping the table as though his life depended on it, I was casually straddling my chair looking as though I was about to fall asleep.

I yawned dramatically and made a big show of covering my mouth before stretching out my left arm. I was mid-stretch when I caught Mishti's eye. She was standing over the stove stirring a spoon in a bowl, and I gave her a quick wink. She rolled her eyes and turned back to her soup. I glanced at Baljeet's pained expression and reached into my trouser pocket, pulling out a sparking, silver pocket watch. I clicked it open and stared at the clock's face. It had been long enough now.

"Time's up, Jeet." I flashed him a sympathetic smile. "Better luck next time."

With a small surge of power, I slammed his arm down on the table.

"Come on, Raj!" Baljeet moaned desperately.

I let go of his arm and flexed my fingers. Admittedly, they were a bit sore. "I have to hand it to you – you're getting better. A few more rounds, and I might even break into a sweat."

Baljeet glared at me, cradling his sore arm. "What's the point? You'll always win."

I shrugged. "Maybe. But you'll never know until you try."

His dark eyes gave me an incredulous stare, his unruly black mop cascading over his eyebrows. "You honestly think that I could beat you?"

I stared down at my shiny black shoes, fixating my gaze on a nonexistent scuff, refusing to meet his eyes – or answer his question. Really, what was I supposed to say? I wasn't going to lie to him, but I honestly did not want to voice the truth aloud.

It had only been a few years ago that we had been similar heights and sizes, able to wear the same clothes. Baljeet had always been a bit frailer – skinner, too – but neither one of us had been at a great disadvantage. I'd even managed to pass him off as myself once or twice to naïve adults, when I'd dressed him right and messed his hair a bit. But after we had turned fourteen, we'd both known that would never happen again.

While Baljeet had been stuffing his face in the desperate hope that he'd start to fatten up, I'd been shooting up like a reed. At first, there wasn't a huge difference in our heights, but after about a year, you'd have to have been as blind as a bat not to notice the stark contrast between us. In a period of two years, everything about us twisted and contorted into something virtually unrecognizable.

Baljeet had actually grown fairly tall, much to his delight, but had barely put on a pound, leaving him as thin and wiry as ever. He was still not used to his gangly legs and at times could be rather awkward and clumsy, but during those moments when he finally seemed to have it all together, he could run like an antelope. I, on the other hand, grew not only taller, but broader, seeming to thrive on the rich food that my lavish lifestyle had to offer. The Davidsons' baker became my best friend during those years.

But by now, I had almost scaled six feet and was still growing, as many had assured me. It left me feeling rather out of place, though. It wasn't extremely hard to find Europeans of my size and stature, but my skin color ended any similarity there. I was clearly no European, and like they say, a leopard can't change its spots. But on the other hand, even among my own people, I stood out like a sore thumb. My European clothes, education, and apparent "worldliness" made people somewhat leery of me, as though I were some fascinating but equally odd foreign species. And to add the cherry on top, my size was intimidating. I wasn't especially huge, but compared to my traditionally shorter counterparts, I was definitely noticeable, and not necessarily in a good way.

It had made me wonder who on earth my parents might be and if I looked anything like them. Mishti, ever the romanticist, had concocted a grandiose tale to satisfy my curiosity. According to her, my father had been the descendant of the powerful – and large - leader of a Sikh Misl, one of the mighty Sikh provinces, but had fallen in love with a beautiful Hindu girl from another caste. Despite their forbidden love, they had married and run away together, abandoning their rigid rules and regulations, and had set out for Calcutta. But along the way, he was hunted down by the girl's angry family and had been killed in an act of vengeance, leaving my mother alone and desperate. With a heavy heart, she had left me in a street, hoping and praying that someone would take pity on her poor, innocent son.

I had laughed for a solid five minutes after hearing her tale and had decided right there and then to accept the fact that I was simply a freak of nature.

"You two are too concerned with being 'manly.'" Mishti said, finally speaking up. "Who's the strongest? Well, I can knock out five guys with one fist! Oh, boohoo, I can't beat Raja at arm wrestling!"

I snickered at her priceless imitation, but Baljeet just glared. Seemingly immune to his venomous stare, Mishti whirled around, one hand on her hip and the other whipping her spoon in the air. "All you men ever do is sit around preening your feathers like a peacock, making complete and utter fools of yourself." By now, she was animatedly waving the spoon back and forth, and I felt a few drops of soup splatter on my face. She gave us both a disgusted glance before returning to her soup. "And you wonder why I never got married."

Baljeet and I exchanged a look, and I gave him a sly grin. His eyebrows raised in response. "Yes, and you're becoming more and more like Mother Margaret every day."

Instantly, she spun around, flinging the spoon around like a weapon. "I oughtta cover you in soup for that remark, you smart mouth."

I quickly ducked just as Baljeet let out a laugh. "Do it, Mishti! Go ahead, do it!"

It was upon sound judgment that I shielded myself with my arms. "Kidding, kidding, Mishti! You know I didn't really mean it!" I pleaded. "You're not like Mother Margaret at all. I mean, come on, you're young and beautiful."

"Uh, Raj," Baljeet started in a low voice, "you do realize that Mother Margaret is standing in the doorway, don't you?"

I jerked my head towards the door in alarm. "What?"

No one was there.

"Got you," Baljeet laughed as I turned back to him with a scowl. "Oh, you should have seen the look on your face. Priceless!" I glared harder, only succeeding in making him laugh more. But after a moment, he sobered. "What if she had heard you?"

"I'm so glad she didn't," I replied dryly. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Mishti still glaring at me with the soup-dripping spoon in her hand. "You're not still thinking about covering me in soup, are you?" When she narrowed her eyes, I quickly put on my best puppy-dog look, even though I knew at seventeen, it wasn't quite as convincing.

She let out a deep breath, her lower lip blowing up a tuft of her bangs, and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well, as much as you deserve it, I'm not about to waste a good pot of soup on you. You're not worth it."

"I agree," Baljeet added, nodding his head vigorously up and down. "He's not worth it."

"Thanks, Jeet," I replied sarcastically. "I feel so loved."

"Anytime," he responded with a grin.

"Boys," Mishti muttered under her breath as she turned back to her soup.

"Aww, Mishti, you know we're just teasing." As much as I loved to get a reaction out of her, I always felt a little guilty afterwards. And I especially hated it when she gave me the cold shoulder.

"You know we love you, Mishti," Baljeet added, and I flashed him a grateful smile. Neither of us could stand it when she was mad.

We had both outgrown our childhood crushes on her, but we still adored her. She was like a big sister to us, sometimes even taking on a motherly role. It was something that I particularly noticed about her – she was constantly playing the part of mum for all the little ones at the orphanage. She had never married, which I had always found surprising, but had stayed behind and aided the nuns with all the other children. It wasn't that she couldn't get married – I could think of plenty of potential suitors offhand – but she had never expressed interest in any of them. It seemed that while Baljeet and I had been going through our growth spurts, she had been going through one of her own, but of a different sort. She had emerged more headstrong and determined than ever, and at twenty-three, she was tough as nails while still managing to remain sweet and feminine. And like Baljeet, she had discovered her own purpose in life – saving the seemingly never ending influx of Indian orphans from a life on the streets - or worse.

It made my existence feel more pointless than ever.

"Well, of course you love me!" Mishti exclaimed dramatically, sending a playful grin over her shoulder. "What's not to love?"

I caught on immediately. "Well, I certainly can't think of anything. How about you?"

Baljeet shook his head. "A saint like her couldn't possibly have any faults."

"Beautiful, smart, beautiful," I continued, counting off my fingers.

"You said beautiful twice," Mishti pointed out.

"You're just that beautiful," Baljeet said with a dreamy sigh.

"My mistress's eyes are nothing like the sun; coral is far more red than her lips," I recited, desperately trying to remember some of the Shakespeare I had learned during my language classes.

"Are you reciting poetry?" Mishti inquired skeptically.

"Yes, or at least, I'm trying to. I'm not sure how I'm doing with the translation." I gave her a lopsided grin before launching into another verse. "I've never seen a goddess walk; but I know that my mistress walks on the ground."

Baljeet raised an eyebrow. "A goddess? Well, that would explain all those poor saps that follow her around all day, looking like a wet-eared calf wandering after its mother."

Mishti blushed. "They don't follow me everywhere."

I smirked. "Just about. But seriously," I said, giving her a curious look, "you've never given any of them a second glance, and some of them aren't even ugly. Why's that?"

Mishti sighed and took a few steps towards our table. I was straddling the chair, this being the only time I'd ever be allowed to do so, and had my chin resting on its back.

"Not that you're, you know, old or anything," Baljeet was quick to add. "You're just the only one who stayed behind."

She knew what we meant. As soon as they could, all of the other girls had gotten married and moved away. It was the only way that they'd ever escape, the only hope they had for a better life, even if it usually ended up being just as bad.

But not Mishti.

She stood beside the table, in between the two of us, and I turned around to face her. She smiled fondly, and it suddenly struck me how pretty she really was. Her dark, almond eyes sparkled vibrantly, she had a lovely round face, and her lush, black hair cascaded all the way down her back. But she wasn't just beautiful on the outside. Sure, she had a bit of a temper, but whenever I saw her, she always seemed to be doing something for someone else. Whether it was handing out food to dalits or simply making supper for the kids, she was always doing something.

Unlike me.

She reached over and put a hand on each of our shoulders. "If I got married, I'd be just like every other girl out there. All of them trying so hard to piece together a half-decent dowry and marry the richest man they can get their hands on." She gave us both a meaningful look. "Most of them end up as poor as they were before, only with a dozen extra mouths to feed. I don't want my life to end like that."

"You want to make a difference?" Baljeet offered softly.

I glanced at him, remembering his dream of becoming a doctor. It seemed that everyone knew what they wanted from life, except me.

"Yes," she sighed. "And besides," she added, her face lighting up mischievously, "I could never let any man be the boss of me."

"I pity the fool who'd marry you," I responded with a roll of my eyes.

She whacked me on the back of the head. "Brat," she muttered.

"Hey!" I protested as I rubbed my sore spot.

"Now you two," Mishti announced in her infamous no-nonsense tone of voice, "go make yourselves useful and get me those sacks of flour by the door." She pointed at two at least fifty-pound sacks resting behind the doorway.

"Yes, ma'am!" Baljeet and I barked out simultaneously in English as we sprung to our feet at attention. She nodded in approval as we raised our arms in a brisk salute.

"Hup to it now, men," Mishti ordered in her best British accent. "Supper doesn't cook itself."

"I'd hate for her to be my boss," I mumbled to Baljeet in Hindi as we made our way to the sacks.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, ma'am!" I barked in English.

We'd do that occasionally, switching back and forth between languages. Between the nuns and myself, Mishti and Baljeet had managed to pick up a fair bit of English, although we usually only used it when imitating British soldiers or snobby aristocracy. For the most part, we still spoke in Hindi or Bengali – much to my relief. Because as ridiculous as it was, being right in the middle of Calcutta, I harbored a secret fear that I might start to forget my native tongues. Sometimes, to prevent that from ever happening, I would talk to myself, mumbling little pieces of Hindi and Bengali here and there. With my life in a strictly English homestead, this was the only time I ever had the chance to use them in an intelligent conversation.

And it felt like coming home.

I grabbed the sack of flour and heaved it over my shoulder effortlessly. Beside me, Baljeet gave the bag a tug and attempted to do the same. But for a moment, the bag wobbled, and Baljeet looked as though he was about to lose his balance. I felt like reaching out and giving him a hand, but I forced myself to hold back. I had wounded his pride enough for the day. Thankfully, however, he quickly got the situation under control, steadying the sack on his shoulder. He shot me a glance, and I caught a look of appreciation in his eyes for keeping my big mouth shut. I smiled in response.

"Over here, you two," Mishti called out, pointing to a spot near the stove. "I have to make more bread tonight. We're almost out."

"But you just made some yesterday," Baljeet mentioned, giving her a curious look.

"Do you know how many mouths there are to feed around here?" Mishti demanded.

"A lot," Baljeet admitted reluctantly, "plus the ones that come for handouts."

"Exactly."

I looked away guiltily, thinking of all the extra food and delicious pastries that I had at my convenience every single day.

"You coming, Raj?" Baljeet called back to me as he made his way to the stove.

I jerked myself back to reality, snapping out of my guilt fest. "Uh, yeah."

Up ahead, Baljeet leaned over and dropped the sack with a thud on the ground, causing thousands of pieces of powder to flutter into the air.

"Oh, great," Baljeet choked out, "now my asthma is going to start up again."

I shook my head as I took a step forward, carefully maneuvering past the chairs we had forgotten to push in. The room was really that small. There was an ancient stove that probably dated back to the Napoleonic Wars, which was responsible for cooking every meal in the place. A few counters lined the walls, with a large basin in the corner where Mishti would stick a bucket of water for washing. But besides the miniscule table and chairs at the center of the room, the only other things were boxes and bags of flour and food lining the walls. A back door led to a pump outside – they had finally managed to set one up – and a few half-boarded windows allowed sunlight to stream through onto Mishti's work.

Behind me, I heard what sounded like a child's giggle, and my head wandered in that direction. A little girl was running down the hallway, chasing a shiny, blue marble. It was rolling towards me and came to a halt as it collided with my shoe.

I bent over and picked it up. "Here you go," I said with a smile as I handed it back to her. "Take good care of it, now." I knew how much she probably treasured the thing. At her age, a marble had been as valuable to me as a piece of gold.

The girl looked up at me with wide, chocolate-brown eyes. She peeked up at me shyly from underneath of the long, black strands of hair that had fallen over her eyes. Her hands were behind her back, and one of her bare, little feet was rubbing her other ankle. Her clothes were patched in several places, and there was a little smudge of dirt on her cheek. I would've guessed her to be no more than six.

She seemed quite shy, and so I pushed my hand closer towards her. Timidly, she reached out and snatched the marble before taking a quick peek at my face and running out of sight into the hallway.

I turned back to the stove with a small smile playing at the corners of my mouth and dropped the sack of flour on the ground. "She was sure a shy one."

"Not really," Mishti retorted with a half-shrug as she stirred the pot bubbling on the stove. "I wouldn't call Kashmira particularly shy, would you, Baljeet?"

Baljeet shook his head in response.

I frowned. "Then why was she so scared of me?"

"You look different," Mishti responded bluntly.

"What?" I gawked incredulously. "I'm Indian! I spoke Hindi to her! I was raised in this orphanage. How could I look different?"

"Your skin is the same," Mishti conceded, "but everything else is European."

I looked down at my flawless cashmere trousers with the silver pocket watch – my worst outfit.

"I can't help it!" I protested. "They make me wear it. I swear, every time I try to get my hands on something actually comfortable, with an hour, the maids have sniffed it out and confiscated it, replacing it with something more suffocating than ever."

Mishti smirked at me. "I'm not criticizing you, Kabra (she still refused to call me Raj). I'm just telling you the truth." She shrugged. "Most of the little ones are too young to remember you, and they're not used to seeing an Indian like them all dressed up like a white man. It's… unsettling."

"But not to us," Baljeet was quick to add. "You'll always be the same obnoxious Raj."

I cracked a small smile. "Thanks." I glanced back at the doorway and caught several faces peeking around the corner at me. Quickly, as soon as they caught my eye, they disappeared, but I could still hear their breathless whispers from the other side.

"Looks like I'm the freak show," I muttered, plopping back down on my chair with my chin in my hand.

"Aww, come on, Raj. It's not like that at all. They love it when you come around; they're always asking when you'll come back," Baljeet reassured me as he seated himself across from me on the other side of the table. "You're the most amazing thing since chocolate pastries."

I snickered and reached for the glass of water at the edge of the table.

"I know what will make you feel better," Mishti declared cheerfully.

"What?" I gargled, the cup of water still raised to my lips.

"This."

Instantly, a bucket of ice-cold water was showered upon me, utterly drenching every inch of my once dry body.

I spit the water still in my mouth back into the cup as frigid water poured into my ears and eyes. Choking and sputtering, I whirled on her furiously.

"What was that for?"

"For calling me an old maid."

"I never said that!"

"You implied it."

Meanwhile, Baljeet, who had been watching the whole scene play out with great amusement, suddenly broke out into uncontrollable laughter.

Mishti and I glanced at each other in alarm. Baljeet was more of the quiet sort, rarely ever emitting a hearty laugh, but when he got started, he couldn't stop. And to top it off, he snorted. Like a pig.

"No, Baljeet, don't," I pleaded desperately.

But it was too late. The snorting had begun.

I buried my face in my hands and tried vainly not to start laughing, too. To save myself, I grabbed my glass of water and began pouring it down my throat, determined to drown out my impending laughter. But just as the water began to go down, he started breaking into a fresh burst of pig snorts, the worst I had ever heard in my entire life.

That was the last straw. I couldn't take it anymore.

Instantly, I burst out laughing, the water in my mouth spewing straight across the table. I grabbed at my side to keep it from splitting open, but suddenly realized that there was still some water stuck in my throat trying to go down the wrong way. I let out a half-gurgling, half-choking sound, and the others glanced at me in alarm.

"Are you o-kay?" Baljeet asked, giving a sudden hiccup on the last syllable of "okay." That was the aftershock. He would always get hiccups.

I shook my head in reply while emitting another frightening series of hacking sounds. Immediately, both were at my side, pounding on my back. I gripped the table hard to keep my balance. This water had really gone down the wrong way.

"Come on – cough it up," Mishti encouraged.

But my earth-shattering chokes only got louder, and it wasn't long before I had attracted an audience. Five little faces peered around the doorway, and a few of the especially brave ones even stepped into the kitchen.

"What's wrong with him?" one little boy cried above my noise.

"Is he dying?" the little girl I'd met before, Kashmira, asked.

"No," Mishti responded in an equally loud voice. "He's choking on water. Now come and help him cough it up."

Before I knew it, there were at least half a dozen hands and maybe even a few fists pounding me on the back, and so many voices were cheering me on that I felt as though I were running a marathon.

Finally, after more than my fair share of sputtering and gagging, I could feel my lungs beginning to clear. I let out a few last chortles to completely unclog my throat before collapsing back against my chair.

"Are you okay?"

The voice was unfamiliar to me, but then again, my brain was still half-dazed. Still, I had no idea just how many people had come to my aid. I gave a slight nod and grabbed at my raw throat.

"You gave us quite a scare there," Mishti proclaimed. "You sure you're all right?"

"My throat's a little sore," I admitted.

Baljeet grabbed my half-empty glass of water and thrust it towards me. "Water?" he offered.

I glared.

"Hey," Baljeet countered defensively, "it'll make you feel better."

And as ironic as it was, I knew he was right. Only water could cure my irritated throat.

"Fine," I responded, grabbing the glass from his hand.

I felt rather awkward as I drank the water with all the little children silently staring at me. I put the glass of water down and turned to the kids.

"Sukriya," I said in gratitude, speaking directly to them in their own language in the hope that they would see me as one of their own.

But before they could respond, a voice interrupted us. "What's going on in here?" Immediately, an older girl appeared around the corner. She had plain clothing, but sported a few colorful pieces of jewelry and a red bindi on her forehead. Her long hair was tied back, and I would have placed her at only a few years younger than myself.

"He almost died," Kashmira replied, pointing a tiny finger in my direction.

A warm flush began working its way up my neck.

"Nonsense," Mishti objected. "He did not almost die. Now go on, all of you – run along. I have supper to make."

Like ants, the children instantly scattered and disappeared out the door.

"So what really happened, Mishti?" the girl asked as she watched the children vanish into the hallway. "It certainly sounded like someone was dying."

Mishti rolled her eyes. "Yes, Kabra, decided to kill himself with water."

I averted my gaze, suddenly finding a stain on the wall exceedingly fascinating.

"Hi, Roshana."

I snapped my head in Baljeet's direction. Glancing at his face, my suspicions were confirmed.

Roshana. So, this was the girl he had told me so much about.

He had it bad.

Startled, as though she hadn't really noticed him, Roshana gave him a sideways glance. "Oh, hi, Baljeet." But just as quickly, she turned her attention back to me.

"You're all right?" she asked, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Umm, yeah," I mumbled awkwardly, instantly noticing Baljeet's seething glare.

She pulled her hand back. "Why, you're all wet! What happened to you?"

I rolled my eyes. "A close encounter with a bucket."

She laughed. "You've always had such a great sense of humor, Raja. In fact, that's what I remember most about you. Well, that and the fact that you could never stay out of trouble." Her voice turned nostalgic. "Remember all the good times we had?"

"Uh, yeah!" I replied, forcing myself to sound enthusiastic. Honestly, the only "good time" I could remember was when I had stolen her dolls.

"But it's a shame," she continued, seating herself beside me, "that we never see you anymore."

I shrugged uncomfortably. "I come when I can."

She smiled warmly at me, and I squirmed uneasily. "Well, you should come more often."

Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see Mishti serenely watching the drama unfold and Baljeet shooting daggers at me. This whole situation was unfortunate, to say the least, and I knew I had to get out of it as quickly – and carefully – as possible. But really, it wouldn't be that hard. I was famous for slipping out of sticky situations. If I had to go with the oldest trick in the book, I would.

"Of course," I beamed, giving her a radiant smile while trying to block Baljeet's face out of my peripheral vision. "It's just with my busy schedule, I don't usually have the tim-" I paused dramatically, pretending to just have remembered something important. "The time! Good gracious, look how it flies!" I reached into my pocket and made a big show of grabbing my pocket watch. I flipped it open and frowned. The face was completely frozen. "Mishti, you ruined my watch. The water got into the gears."

"Whoops."

"But it's fine," I added jovially, and she glanced at me in surprise. "I'm sure Baljeet can fix it. He can fix anything."

He stared at me blankly. "I can?"

"Yes," I responded through gritted teeth, "you can."

"Oh… yeah."

I handed him the watch and gave him a warning look that said, You had better not mess this up. He responded with a desperate look of his own, a frantic plea for help. I was the one who knew how to fix things, not him. When it came to the human body, he knew more than anybody, but when it came to understanding the inner workings of mechanical contraptions, my time on the street had taught me more than my fair share of knowledge, whether it was for breaking things apart or putting them back together.

"I didn't know Baljeet could fix things," Roshana remarked with a puzzled expression plastered across her face."

"You and me both," I heard Mishti mumble.

"Oh, yes" I continued smoothly, ignoring Mishti's remark, "It's amazing what he can do. He just removes the pallet lever, delivers a few puffs of air to the wheel, tightens it, and rewinds the clock. Quite simple, really." I had spoken the words as slowly as possible, without seeming obvious.

"Sounds like you know how to do it, too," she pointed out.

"In theory," I responded, "but only Baljeet's nimble fingers can work their magic-" A thud caused me to glance up and catch Baljeet awkwardly picking up the trinket from the floor. "-on it."

She stared at me skeptically.

"ROSHANA!"

She glanced up. "Looks like I'm needed." She put a hand on my shoulder. "Nice seeing you, Raj. I'm hoping you'll be back soon." She bent over and placed a small kiss on my cheek. "See you later, Mishti," she called out as she made her way to the hallway. "Oh, you too, Baljeet."

He smiled shyly at her, even though she had barely acknowledged his presence. I forced out a weak one of my own. As soon as she was around the corner, however, Baljeet tossed the watch back at me.

"Thanks," he muttered.

I sighed exasperatedly. "I'm sorry, Baljeet. I tried, okay?"

He crossed his arms and harrumphed, refusing to look at me.

"It's not my fault!"

He turned his head, finally looking me in the eye. "I know it isn't. It isn't your fault for being so much better than me."

I gaped. "So I live with a rich guy and have nice clothes. Big whoop! That's nothing."

He glared at me. "It's not the clothes, and you know it."

I opened my mouth, but quickly closed it, knowing exactly what he meant by the stinging remark. Everywhere I went, girls were always giving me second glances. "Devilishly handsome" someone had once called me. Somehow I had managed to mature quite nicely, with my softer baby features contorting into something chiseled and masculine. Strong, tall, and with a head full of thick, curly, black hair, I had seen more than a few portly, balding British men eye me with envy. But I knew they'd never really want to look like me. My skin – my greatest blemish – was the wrong color.

In all truth, however, I knew it was my eyes that had always distinguished me from the rest of poverty-stricken India. My eyes were fairer than the normal chocolate-brown of my people, but were still unlike any of the colors I had seen in Europeans. Not hazel, but not quite brown, they were almost a strange mixture of brown and yellow, creating an almost… amber color. A hypnotizing amber.

Handsome, charming, and rich – what penniless girl wouldn't try to catch my eye?

Normally, I loved the fact that I could make girls fall head over heels with one look, but when situations like this popped up, it wasn't quite so pleasant. What bothered me so much, however, was that whenever I was with Baljeet, he always seemed to blend into the background, and I knew he didn't deserve that. A brilliant scientist, loyal friend, and not at all bad looking – he was going places, although people didn't seem to recognize it, especially when I was around.

And I had no idea what to do about it.

Truth was, I didn't live for the spotlight. Even though I would never admit it, my childhood escapades had simply been the result of years of isolation. I'd had Vidhya until I was five and friends on the street who had watched my back, but for the most part, I had been taking care of myself. Vidhya hadn't been the most affectionate of sorts, and as he was always out trying to scavenge for food, he had simply never had the time to dote on me. Until I was eight, I had been forced to grow up trying to blend into the background. That was how I had survived. So when I had come to the orphanage, I had relished the nuns' attention and had constantly been seeking more.

But I suppose there were always two sides to me. One part of me basked in the attention and adored taking command, having every eye, all undivided attention, on myself. The other side, however, just… existed. I could be the one that every eye watched with excitement one minute, and then turn around and be the one silently observing from the background in the next. I enjoyed my solitude, silently observing the world around me, but these days, it was getting harder and harder to come by. People couldn't help noticing me.

Mishti, who had been conspicuously silent throughout the whole ordeal, finally decided to speak up. "Baljeet, if Roshana is so superficial that she would only judge by outward appearances, then she isn't worth your time."

"Exactly!" I added with enthusiasm. "Look at you – you're funny, handsome, brilliant, and a great friend. Some girl is bound to notice you."

He gave me a skeptical look. "Handsome?"

"Absolutely!" I affirmed. "And you have dreams, too."

"Yeah, ones that are never going to come true," he grumbled.

"Nonsense," I chastised. "You spend your free time learning English and studying science. You help Mishti hand out food to the poor. The two of you make meals, she spends hours taking care of little terrors, and I… take violin lessons."

He glanced up at me in surprise. "You do? I've never heard you play."

"There's a reason."

He cracked a smile, and I knew that he wasn't going to stay mad at me. But just to make sure, I decided to use my secret weapon. "And Baljeet, look at what I brought you." I reached under the table and found my hand instantly covered in slobber. "Echkk!" I blurted out, pulling it back in alarm. I bent over and peered under the table, instantly finding myself face to face with the scrappiest dog in existence. With brown, matted fur and half of his ear missing, I knew he would never win any "Best in Show" prizes. The children had discovered him more dead than alive, and I knew that Mishti hadn't had the heart to turn him away. Somehow, he had managed to sleep through all the commotion – right on top of my satchel.

"Move it, you big lug," I demanded.

He continued to stare at me, his black tongue dangling outside of his mouth, dripping like a faucet.

"Fine," I grunted. "We'll do it your way." I grabbed the handle of the satchel and pulled until the dog finally moved his rear end.

I rolled my eyes. "Here, Jeet. Two brand-new, state-of-the-art, British-style, scientific textbooks."

His eyes lit up, and he jerked his head towards me. "What kind?"

I glanced at the titles. "The Complete History of Ancient Alchemy and Human Anatomy."

"I know who won't be helping me with supper tonight!" Mishti remarked in a sing-song voice.

"Thanks, Raj!" he exclaimed, eagerly grabbing the books from my hand and ignoring Mishti.

I grinned, knowing I was back in his good graces once again.

He glanced back up at me hopefully. "Next time you come, you think you could help me with the words I don't know?"

I snorted. "I'm the one who needs help. You get this stuff way more than I do. And besides, if the nuns don't know the word, I doubt I would, either." I grabbed one of the books and flipped to a random page. "I mean, come on, who in their right mind knows what 'bezoar' means?"

"It's when some chemical compounds, such as sulfur auretum and either red mercuric oxide or black antimony, clump together inseparably as soon as they are mixed together," he responded.

I stared. "Well, I guess you do. Anyway," I said, stretching lazily, "I probably should be getting back. Madame Beauford blows a gasket every time I'm late for French lessons… or etiquette lessons, or any lessons, really." I cringed at the bad memories.

"Just tell her you were in a life-or-death situation," Mishti offered.

"Naw, they stop believing you after a while."

"How late are you?" Baljeet asked.

"I wouldn't know." I sent a glare in Mishti's direction. "My watch is broken."

She coughed. "Sorry."

"Aww, it's okay," I replied with a shrug. "I can fix it." I stared at the clock's frozen face. "At least, I think I can." I smiled up at them. "I'll see you guys later, okay?"

"You can take the back door," Mishti offered.

"Thanks," I replied gratefully. That way, I'd be able to avoid any more undesirable "incidents." I stepped towards the kitchen's back door and opened it, revealing a beautiful, sun-kissed day outside.

"Come back soon, you hear?"

"I will."

"Thanks again, Raj," Baljeet called out as I stepped out onto the lush, green grass.

"No problem, Jeet," I responded with a wave as I disappeared around the corner. Besides the pitiful attempt at landscaping the nun's had created around the orphanage's entrance, I was forced to walk down the old cobblestone road, past alleyways and run-down shacks to get back home. Aunt Eloise hated me walking these streets alone, but I had absolutely refused to let a bodyguard come with me. I had grown up here, even lived on the streets for three years – I knew how to take care of myself. But I had only managed to convince her that I was "safe" when I had agreed to bring a small dagger along for protection. Not that I'd ever need it.

I stepped across wobbly stones, carefully avoiding piles of sludge scattered around – and on – the road. Flea-ridden dogs cut across my path, one aggressively nipping at the other's heels. Some women had set up a laundry line and were trying to hang up their clothes while keeping an eye on their rambunctious children. Half-crumbling shacks were lined closely together, and every once in a while a little head would peek out a bare window. Old men lined some of the walls, sticking their hands out for rupees as I walked by.

I slipped a small coin into each of their outstretched palms.

They reminded me of Vidhya, doing the exact same thing every day for years in return for mere crumbs, ones he had been willing to split in half with me. I couldn't simply walk past these men, not with a clear conscience.

Several children were playing in the street ahead of me, but as soon as they saw me, they all bolted, except for one wild-looking boy with a long, black scar across his shoulder.

He stood his ground, staring me straight in the eye. "You bring food today, Raj?" he called out in Bengali.

"Hê," I replied, reaching for my satchel. I pulled out some leftover pastries and bread that I had managed to snatch from the Davidsons' kitchen and gently unwrapped their lacy-white covering.

Whoops. Maybe putting them with the textbooks hadn't been the best idea.

The boy marched up to me and glanced at the food in my hand. "Looks good."

"They're kind of squished," I noted apologetically.

"Doesn't matter." He turned to face where the other children had vanished. Several of them had already reemerged and were timidly heading towards me. "Come everyone! Raja brought food!"

Instantly, like a pack of hungry wolves, the children surrounded me. Overwhelmed, I simply tried to keep up with the demand, breaking up the bread as quickly as my hands were able.

The boy turned to face me. "Where's Kajal?"

I shrugged in response just as a boy ripped a piece of bread out of my hand.

"Kajal, come here!" the boy called out. "Come get bread!"

Most of the children had gotten some by now, but I knew that I didn't have much left. No matter how much I brought, I always seemed to run out.

A little girl stepped forward, timidly grasping the boy's hand. I bent over, meeting her at eye-level and held a small pastry in front of her. "Here you go, Kajal," I said with a smile. "Enjoy."

She reached out and swiftly snatched the treat from my hand before giving me a toothy grin. I smiled back at her.

A sudden tug at my arm, however, sent me staring straight into the pleading eyes of a boy with his little sister on his arm.

"Please, mister, do you have any more?"

I glanced down to find my kerchief now completely empty of anything but crumbs, and even those had almost completely disappeared.

"I'm sorry," I replied guiltily, "but they're all gone." I stood up and tousled the boy's hair. "I'll bring some more next time, okay?"

He nodded sadly and turned away, releasing a fresh pang of guilt in my chest. I hated this. I always had so much for myself, but never enough for them. I lived in a palace, but somehow I could never manage to give them more than crumbs. What I hated most, however, was what it revealed about my own life: I was spoiled rotten.

I pulled my satchel over my shoulder and took a step forward, prepared to resume my journey, finished with my good deed for the day.

"Thanks for the food, Raj!"

I turned my head to find at least a dozen children waving at me and smiling, a few still munching contentedly, although the majority of them had stuffed their faces as soon as they had gotten the chance.

I smiled in return and gave them a wave of my own before pressing onward again. I was largely undisturbed for the rest of the journey, especially so once I had left the Hindu quarter of the city, leaving me and my thoughts to themselves.

These visits always made me question myself, my motives, my purpose in life. The others had all found their place – why couldn't I? I had the best of everything, people were always telling me I was "something special," but I had nothing to show for it all. I was just me – plain, old Raj.

It took me about half of an hour to cross the many sub-sections and divisions of Calcutta before finally reaching the aristocratic side of the city. The difference was astounding. Manicured lawns, bubbling fountains, and exotic and luscious fauna made the place where I had been raised look like a dump in comparison. And, well, it was.

I made my way to the gates of the Davidsons' compounds and prepared for my usual means of entrance – jumping it. I puckered my mouth and flattened the palms of my hands, slicking them both with saliva. Despite being unsanitary, it was the oldest climbing trick in the book, one I had learned during my days on the street. I reached up to grab the first bar when -

"You – over there – what do you think you're doing?"

My hands fell limp at my side.

"What do you think you're doing, young man?" the voice repeated.

I turned around to find myself staring directly into the face of a young , sour-faced British man. He sported an expensive three-piece suit, a head of thinning, red hair, and a scowl as deep as the Mariana Trench.

I gave a sheepish grin. "I live here. I was trying to get in."

His scowl deepened, if that was even possible. "And so you decided to climb over the gate?"

"It's faster?" I offered weakly.

He gave a loud harrumph. "And I suppose your master is pleased with your shenanigans?"

My mouth dropped open, and I struggled to find the words to reply. "The general isn't my-"

"Are you the courier?" he interrupted.

Suddenly, everything fell into place. My dark skin automatically made me a servant, my well-off clothing too good for a mere peasant, and my satchel made me look like an errand boy. This wasn't right, and his assumptions were insulting. I had to set the record straight.

"Listen, sir, I'm not one of the-"

"Because I have a message for your master," he continued on, completely ignoring my attempts at correcting him.

"For the last time," I exclaimed exasperatedly, "I'm not-"

"How rude!" the man sniffed. "Where are your manners? Interrupting your superiors." He gave a weary sigh. "But I suppose I can't expect much better from your kind."

I narrowed my eyes, all but shooting daggers at the man, and ground my teeth together. Then, forcing out an overly-cheerful smile, I asked through gritted teeth, "What was your message?"

He glared down at me from underneath his stick-thin eyebrows. "This letter is to go straight to General George Davidson by order of Lord Julian Cahill. Why else would I have waltzed all the way up here?"

Cahill. I had only been half listening to his rant, the other half of me thinking less than pleasant thoughts towards him, but that name had caught my complete and undivided attention. It was a name that had been lingering in the back of my mind for five years now, one I had never been able to forget but had been forbidden to remember.

I waited for the man to finish his rant about travelling all the way up here to personally deliver this message before politely making my offer. "I can give Master Davidson the letter for you. No need to waste more of your precious time waiting for an audience." I finished off with an angelic smile.

He stared at me skeptically for a moment before finally caving in. "Well, I suppose… I have a million things to do back at the office, and I can't expect any of those half-wits to get anything done on their own." He sighed mournfully before turning back to me. "But it is imperative that it gets to your master. Immediately." He gave me a hard stare.

"Yes, sir," I replied, eagerly taking the envelope from his grasp.

He gave me another look, as though second guessing his decision. "Maybe I should just make sure that-"

"Sir," I interrupted, "please don't take me as being rude, but if I may, this is my job. If I wasn't an honest worker, the general would never have hired me. And I would never risk losing my livelihood over a silly little letter." I gave him a reassuring nod. "I can take care of things, sir. Just go back to your men and show them how to get their jobs done."

"I suppose," he conceded. "But you had better make sure it gets to him, or I will have a word with your employer about this – and your unseemly behavior."

I gave another reassuring nod as he turned on his spit-and-polished shoes, mumbling something about the help in these parts. As soon as his back was to me, I made a gagging face, but quickly covered it as he glanced back at me over his shoulder. I flashed him an innocent smile and pretended to rearrange my satchel as I waited until he had disappeared from view.

This was it.

I clutched the letter, inspecting the envelope. There were no markings other than the general's name and address, except for the faint outline of a greasy fingerprint. I glanced from side to side as I snatched my dagger, which was concealed within my clothing. Carefully, I slid it under the fold, slipping open the covering without making a mark. A drop of hot wax, and it would be as good as new. Another useful skill I had managed to pick up.

I gently pried open the delicate fold, careful not to damage it, and slipped the letter out. It was fresh paper, crisp and unwrinkled, crinkling lightly under my touch. I turned it over and stared. There, on the fold, was a marking of sorts. It was somewhat like a seal, one that appeared to be of great significance. Mesmerized, I studied it. Two snakes twisted together around a sword, their tongues both flicking out dauntingly. It made me think of my own name, Nagaraga, king of serpents. A rather striking similarity, as odd as it was.

Taking a deep breath, I unfolded it, anxiously awaiting whatever it was I was about to find.

I could have done the right thing and given the letter to the general, but as I'm sure you've realized by now, that was never my style. I had to do things my way. I had to find out the truth for myself. And if that letter had anything to do with the Cahills, which I was certain it did, then I had to know what it was.

What should I have done? Speaking as one who has already read the letter, I will say this: I should have destroyed it. If I had been wise, I would have crumpled it, torn it apart, and scattered it to the wind. They say a letter itself is not so dangerous as the message it carries. I suppose it's true. As for me, it was about to deliver one I had been secretly dreading, one that was about to unleash my greatest fears.

It was the beginning of my end.