It would begin as an emptiness that churned and expanded in Hajurama’s stomach, gutting her, carving her from within.
It would begin as an emptiness that churned and expanded in Hajurama’s stomach, gutting her, carving her from within.
She was Noor Jahan, she was Lakshmi Bai, she was Cleopatra, she was a Queen, a Warrior, a God.
She had never really loved her husband. What she had felt for him was a kind of respectful devotion, the kind her mother had held for her father.
Prince Trailokya stopped at a bend halfway up Shivapuri, exhausted. He’d left his horse outside Budhanilkantha temple almost two ghadis ago and had climbed continuously, determined to make it to the top.
Twelve years ago it was Isaac who happened to be sitting outside when Ranya showed up at Chavurat Messiah one October night. Only she wasn’t Ranya then; she was Kathleen DiMarco, Kat, twenty-four years old and seven months pregnant.
Amritananda smiled. What a strange, quaint person this Rejident was, impeccable manners, soft-spoken and so out of place in the cesspool of Kathmandu politics.
Clocks are trouble. They lie. Women are trouble. They know when you’re lying. Bloody hell. I don’t know what day it is.
There was a time when people in the great plains believed in ny?ya. Not anymore. Not after what had happened.
