Prologue

One scorching hot afternoon in May two priests of the Great Temple came to Govinda Das' modest home at the edge of the city to inspect the girl, as was the custom. They sat down on one of the two cots placed in the house's central yard, fanning themselves in the heat and smiling politely to their host. The girl brought them cool water in two big steel glasses. She waited patiently for the priests to finish their drinks and place their glasses back on the plate she was holding. Her father sat down on his own cot, opposite to the priests, and got straight to business.

"Her mother passed away when she was just an infant," Govinda Das started, motioning towards his young daughter who had gone inside the house to take the glasses back to the kitchen. He wiped his forehead with his palm and then continued: "My family isn't from around here, as you know, I moved to this city several years ago just to be able to work for the Great Temple. I've been Chandrika's sole caretaker since. Now I see my own health decline and I worry about her future, her fate. That is why I want her to be attached to the Great Temple, earn a living, and continue my family's profession as an artist," Govinda explained to the priests, joining his hands in respect.

"We know, Govinda Das," the elder one of the priests stated, getting up from the cot. He flashed Govinda Das a comforting smile. "The Great Temple is grateful to you for your work as a musician and we understand the concern for your daughter. Call her back here, so we may take a better look at her."

"Chandrika, come here," Govinda called out for his daughter. She appeared again at the door and peeped out. "Come on out, child," Govinda asked, smiling to her lovingly. The young girl stepped down and stood in the yard. She was dressed in a simple cotton dress. Her braided hair fell on the level of her hips. Her big eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Your daughter is pretty. How old is she?" the elder priest asked, walking up to the girl.

"She's twelve."

"In the right age."

"She doesn't carry your disease?" the other priest asked Govinda as the first one requested Chandrika to open her mouth to examine her teeth.

"You know my disease isn't contagious," replied Govinda. "It will take me, but it won't touch her. She is in perfectly good health."

The girl closed her mouth, eyeing the priest, waiting for more instructions. "Turn around slowly. Very good. Walk to the tree and back. Keep your chin up, dear! You see? Her limbs are long and her gait graceful," the priest clapped his hands and smiled approvingly. The younger one got up now too and walked to where Chandrika was standing. "Yes, yes, I do see. What have you learned so far from your father, my child?" he asked Chandrika directly. The girl paused her walk, joined her hands in respect, and spoke.

"My father has taught me the systems of rhythms and melodies. I know the mythological stories of the puranas. I can sing praises of Lord Shiva."

"She's been observing the musicians and the dancers of the temple since we moved here. She knows more than she herself realizes and she's quick to learn," Govinda added. His words were followed by a sudden fit of coughing that was ignored by the priests who were concentrated in examining Chandrika from each angle. The girl stood still, patiently.

"Do you want to be wedded to the Lord and become a handmaiden at the Great temple?" the elder priest asked finally, observing Chandrika's face carefully. Her eyes widened.

"Yes," she replied breathlessly. "I want to!"

It was true that she wanted. She had seen the handmaidens of the Great Temple many times, dressed in fine silk, their heavy necklaces and earrings glimmering in the radiant sun, cross the temple yard proudly as if it belonged to them alone. She had seen the eager crowd calm down suddenly in front of them and make way for them, whispering to each other: "There go the eternally auspicious ones!" She had seen them burst into songs and dance, joyful tillana-dances in the mornings and padam-dances dripping with longing and love in the evenings. They performed their art in front of a cheering crowd, they had countless admirers and well-wishers ready to do any service for them. Chandrika's father had played the violin for those wonderous performances before falling ill. The days of the handmaidens were spent in creating and propagating music and art. They seemed happy. Chandrika had always considered them lucky. Not only that – as living brides ritually wedded to the immortal god who resided inside the temple, they would never enter widowhood and could never lose the auspiciousness granted to a Hindu bride by the society. They were considered so important that no ritual took place without their presence. They always had a home and a caretaker in the temple and didn't have to worry about worldly matters. And they were the first ones and last ones allowed inside the temples, they were the ones who put the god to sleep at night and woke him up again in the morning. Who would not want to be one of them?

"We'll take her," the elder priest nodded. "She'll start with simple tasks, like making flower garlands and watching over the temple's candles and lamps. We'll provide her education in music and dance too, and if she shows promise in that, she'll get a lot of opportunities to explore her talents."

Hearing his words, Chandrika gasped, turned, ran up to her father and flung herself to his neck. Both burst into tears. The priests smiled to one another. This was an auspicious day. They had found a new handmaiden who hailed from a family of artists. And she was herself willing to join the Temple. "We'll agree on a date to come conduct the ritual to dedicate her," the elder one told the father and the daughter. "As you know, it's a marriage ritual between the girl and the Lord that will take place in your home and the very next day, she will be able to move onto the Temple grounds." Chandrika let go of her father and hurried to touch the priests' feet with her hands as a sign of respect.

"What preparations must we make?" Govinda Das asked, wiping the corner of his eye. "Do we finance the ritual?"

"Oh, no. The temple will bring whatever we need to conduct the dedication ceremony. Some fruits, some rice, wood, a saree for her, a marital necklace and toe rings…" the younger priest counted with his fingers. "And when she moves in, then too, she doesn't need to bring anything. After all, she's coming to her husband's house, her new home."