Send 😮 and I'll introduce an NPC in My Muse's life!
Ammi-jaan— The woman who got 16 year-old Kali to break. Currently deceased.
1557, Modern-day Lucknow. Ammi-jaan was a much older, gentle tawaif. Sensitive and kind and maternal. She reminded Kali of her own mother, in many ways. Kali hadn't even known of her existence until she first descended stone steps.
It had been nine days since she arrived - sold, not taken, as Ammi-jaan would later gently correct. Nine days of stubborn silence, of hunter strikes and weeping, of staring at the walls as though they might split open and reveal her family's arms, full of coin to exchange back for her.
Ammi-jaan found her curled in the corner of a tiny, tiny room, wrists and ankles shackled to the wall. She didn't touch her, at first. Just sat cross-legged a few feet away and waited for Kali to stop looking as if she may light the rugs on fire with just her gaze.
Ammi-jaan spoke, Kali listened. "I won't tell you to forget them. That would be cruel. But I'll tell you this -- you can either be angry or you can become something they'll regret giving up."
Eventually, Kali's head would end up on her lap and her tears would stain the pleats of her sari.
It was after a particularly cruel lesson - one of the older girls had slapped Kali for misstepping in the Kathak squence, and the madam had turned a blind eye. Kali was angry. She didn't cry this time, but she swallowed it, cheeks burning.
Later that evening, when the courtesans began to retire to their rooms, Ammi-jaan found her in the courtyard, her back to the fountain, legs drawn up to her chest.
Without a word, Ammi-jaan knelt behind her with a bowl of warm coconut oil
"You let them see you flinch, you know," she said, dipping her fingers in.
Kali scoffed, still furious. "But I didn't cry. I did not cry."
Ammi-jaan laughed, parting Kali's hair before rubbing the oil into her scalp. "No, no, you just looked as if you might bite through your own tongue."
Kali remained quiet, stewing in all her childish fury. But because of Ammi-jaan, she'd sleep well.
Once a month, when the new girls stopped crying and the moon was nowhere to be seen in the sky, Ammi-jaan would cook. Kheer, slow-cooked with cardamom, almond, and strands of saffron that most madams wouldn't bother with. Too expensive for girls no one would remember.
Kali asked once, what the point of it all was. It was silly, no?
Ammi-jaan just smiled, because later that night, the girls who hadn't spoken in days would whisper their first words over spoonfuls. She'd serve it in chipped bowls.
Much much later in life, Kali would make the same kheer for her girls, and she'd even chip the rim of the bowl on purpose.
