Chapter 2: Devlok

A bell rang throughout Devlok, and AJ jumped up off the floor.

Not a metal bell — a sound bell. The kind that existed only in the pari realm: a vibration that moved through the air like a wave moves through water, touching every surface, entering every ear, the sound that said: it is time to eat. The bell had been ringing at the same intervals for three centuries, and AJ's body responded before his mind did — the way your body responds to the smell of dal tadka before your brain registers: hunger.

His energy was sufficiently recharged. The broken wing still ached — the persistent ache that was his: companion, the pain that he'd stopped noticing the way Mumbaikars stopped noticing: traffic — but the wing could hold him aloft within Devlok's lighter gravity. Devlok was: kinder to damaged wings. The atmosphere thinner, the pull gentler, the realm designed for flight the way Earth was designed for: walking.

He rolled his shoulders back, stretched out his neck, plastered on a smile — the AJ smile, the smile that he'd perfected over seventeen years of being: the grandson, the son, the boy with the broken wing, the smile that said I'm fine, don't worry, everything is brilliant — and headed toward the dining hall.

He turned left down the first corridor, flying over the soft carpets that lay between the carved sandalwood walls. The carpets were woven with threads of gold — not decorative gold but functional gold, the gold that conducted the energy of Devlok through its floors the way copper conducts electricity. The entire structure of Devlok was: alive with energy. The chandeliers above — intricate designs of crystal and silver — were permanently lit because light and dark did not exist in Devlok the way they did on Earth.

AJ remembered the lessons from pari school about day and night. The young pariyan had been taught that every twenty-four hours, day was automatically replaced by night to remind humans that they were not in: control. They were taught about dawn — the time when night merged with day — which was a time of promise for humans and a thrilling time to be: awake. The time that the ancient texts called Brahma Muhurta — the creator's hour. The hour when the world was: new.

They had been taught that night provided two experiences depending on the human's need. For some: restoration. The process called sleep, which repaired the body and sorted the mind's accumulated: chaos. For others: wrestling. The dark hours when fears grew teeth and thoughts spiralled and the specific loneliness of 3 AM made everything feel: permanent. For those in the second group, fears would begin to dissolve as the sun rose during dawn. Thoughts would slow. Chai would be drunk — the first cup of the morning, the cup that Indian humans treated as: sacred, the ritual that separated the darkness from the: day.

AJ smiled at the memory of those lessons. The pari teacher — old Guru Deva, who had been teaching for six centuries and who still managed to make every lesson feel: urgent — had explained that whatever the humans experienced during night, all of them changed in some way every twenty-four hours. The humans were: perpetually becoming. Never finished. Never: complete. And that was: the beauty. The beauty that the pariyan were born to: protect.

He flew past the out-of-bounds room.

The room glowed a continuous gold — not the gold of the corridor carpets but a deeper gold, the gold of: something else. Something that AJ's mother and her three chosen Elders — Ekta, Eira, and Eshan — accessed for their governance meetings. The room that no other pari in Devlok was permitted to: enter.

Naturally, rumours spiralled. Some said the room contained the source of pari immortality. Others said it held the original texts — the instructions that the universe had written when it created: the pariyan. Others said it was simply a meeting room with particularly good: lighting. AJ didn't know. His mother deflected every question with the specific deflection of a parent who had decided that certain truths were: not yet ready for their child.

But AJ had been in there. Once. He couldn't remember it — he was merely hours old — but Maya had taken him into the golden room in the first moments following his birth. AJ sometimes had vague flashbacks: a warmth that was not temperature but: presence. A light that was not illumination but: recognition. The feeling of being: seen by something larger than: himself.

As he entered the dining hall, he thought again about the out-of-bounds room. About what had happened to him in there seventeen years earlier. About whether the room knew something about his broken wing that his mother: wouldn't tell him.

He flew to the first empty seat and sat down in front of a bowl of hot sambar — the South Indian lentil stew with drumstick and tamarind — with a crispy dosa on the side and a small steel cup of filter coffee. The food of Earth, replicated in Devlok with: perfection. Pariyan had the ability to replicate any Earth food they desired — it looked, smelled, and tasted exactly as the original. The only difference was: the love. Earth food carried the specific energy of human hands that had: made it. Devlok food was: identical in every way except that one.

AJ's spoon clinked against the steel bowl as he began eating, and the pari across the table looked up.

"Would you pass me the water?" AJ asked.

The pari was a year older than AJ, but the lines around his eyes and his thick brows made him appear: older. The specific ageing that occurred in pariyan who spent too much time on Earth — the proximity to human emotion leaving: marks.

"Still or sparkling?"

"Sparkling. Thanks," said AJ, reaching to collect the bottle. "I'm AJ."

"Everyone knows who you are," the pari said with a warm smile. The smile that AJ received: everywhere. The smile of recognition that was: not for him but for his: name.

"I'm Siddharth," said the pari. "Call me Sid."

They shook hands across the table — careful not to knock over the steel tumblers, the small bowls of coconut chutney, the elaborate spread that Devlok's kitchen produced for every meal because pariyan believed that eating was: celebration. Not fuel. Celebration.

"Is it true that you don't have a human?" Sid asked, sitting back down.

"It's true," AJ nodded.

"So, how does that work? How do you find a purpose without having a human to look after?"

AJ was enjoying Sid's directness. Other pariyan didn't usually dare ask questions like this — the questions that touched the specific wound of AJ's: difference. Most pariyan treated his winglessness (well, his wing-brokenness) with the exaggerated care that people use around: disability. The careful not-mentioning that was: louder than mentioning.

"I still go down to Earth," said AJ. "I still watch humans."

"Is it true that when you go down to Earth you can't stay there for long?"

"Yeah." He sat up straighter, put his spoon down on a napkin, turned his shoulders slightly. "This wing is too weak to get me back up if my energy drains too much. Every trip to Earth is — " He paused. Considered the honest word versus the brave word. Chose: honest. "— a gamble."

"If you ever need help, I'm your friend now," said Sid.

AJ looked at him. The statement was: simple. The way the best statements were: simple. Not decorated with conditions or qualifications or the careful hedging that most pariyan used around AJ. Just: an offer. Direct. Clean. The kind of offer that a boy with a broken wing and no assigned humans and a famous grandfather's name and a mother who ruled an entire realm: needed.

"Thanks," said AJ. "I'll remember that."

The sambar bowls were cleared and the main course arrived — a vegetable biryani with raita and papad, the rice fragrant with saffron and cardamom, the specific smell that AJ associated with: comfort. The smell that said: you are fed, you are safe, you are: home.

They ate. And between bites, Sid talked — about his assigned human (a rickshaw driver in Jaipur who was, according to Sid, "the most stubbornly optimistic person on Earth"), about his theory that pariyan who spent too much time in Devlok became: disconnected, about his belief that the broken wing was not: a limitation but: a different kind of gift.

"Think about it," Sid said, tearing a piece of papad and dipping it in raita. "Every other pari gets assigned humans. They develop loyalty to: specific people. They see the beauty in their: particular humans. You see the beauty in: all of them. That's not disability. That's: panoramic vision."

Panoramic vision. The phrase that AJ would carry with him for: years. The phrase that a new friend gave him over biryani in a dining hall in a realm above the clouds, the phrase that made the broken wing feel — for the first time — like: an advantage.