FAINT PROMISE OF RAIN is the story of a little girl in 16th century India. Born during the first rain in five years, Adhira is both somewhat magical and a harbinger of change. Her Hindu family’s tradition dictates that she become a devadasi, a temple dancer and sexual companion to wealthy men. But set against the backdrop of impending war with invading Muslim armies, her unwavering faith creates layers of conflict and secrecy in her family, which all unravel when she falls prey to the temple priest’s desires. Told from her all-knowing point of view, this is a story of devotion to art and to family, of change and loss, and of new beginnings.
The rich history of kathak dance, itself a storytelling art form, gave birth to this novel.
Excerpt:
Prologue
In Rajasthan, a five year old child is likely never to have seen rain. Five hundred years ago, like today, the monsoons were elusive. In the royal palaces, the walls of the children’s rooms were trimmed with black and blue cloud designs, so that when it finally did rain, the little ones would not be afraid. Less fortunate children, those who had grown up looking up at thatched roofs and endlessly blue skies, would remember all their lives the fear and hope they felt the day of their first rain.
Chapter 1 ~ Sam: the first beat of the musical cycle
Summer 1554 ~ Birth
The rain had failed to come for the past five years. I would soon change that, or so some would believe. For months, my brother Mahendra had watched the water level in the lake drop far below the steps that used to lead into it from the sandy path, leaving shrinking brown rings along the shore. The grasses in the courtyard of the temple crackled in the wind, yellow and brittle. Decorative white lime paste designs on the outer walls of the scattered huts flaked and blew off within two days of being painted. And out beyond the city limits, where Mahendra often sought refuge from what he felt were his burdens, even the camels swayed languorously over the hazy dunes, dragging their flat feet over the searing sand as their drivers ut-utted them in irritation, eager to set up camp in the cold relief of night.
The morning that Ma said the child she was carrying, her last, would arrive, Bapu fetched Mahendra to go pray at the temple for a safe birth. Mahendra crossed the still dark room to wake five-year-old Hari Dev, whose crippled legs poked awkwardly out from under his blanket.
“Not Hari Dev. He need not come,” came Bapu’s voice.
“But Bapu, what if he has one of his fits?” Mahendra asked.
There was a brief silence, the type in which Bapu weighed the knowledge of his heart against the desire of his mind.
“Fine.”
Bapu’s retreating footsteps sounded in the darkness, and then the clicking of the bead curtain hanging in the front entrance. Mahendra shook Hari Dev awake, pulled two shawls off his bedding, and together they joined Bapu in the courtyard, where the babul tree and the pots of rice and lentils and the near-empty water jug stood neatly in the grey-blue darkness that precedes dawn.
“Good,” said Bapu, nodding toward Mahendra. “You have come to your senses. No disappearing games today.”
“Yes, Bapu.” Mahendra bit his upper lip, where a few sparse hairs were sprouting. By the end of the summer, he would have a genuine moustache, and then he would advance his plan. He could not know yet how events in my own life would unsettle it.
“The temple is what holds us all together, son,” Bapu said, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Today is an auspicious day. You will see. The child on her way will be our salvation. For a long time I have worried about the fate of this temple, but she will save it.”
