The core centering her naval was burning as sweat packed behind her neck.

Her palms were moist too, loosening her grip on the makeshift mace. A round stone crowned the bamboo, centering its weight away from her hold. The strain fell on her forearms, muscles screaming. Maya welcomed the pain, dwelling in it, as she started with counterclockwise motions. Slow and measured, she paused with each exhale, letting her back muscles relax before continuing circling it over her head, alert under her brother's perceptive gaze.

"You've been practicing," he said, after she dropped on the sweet-smelling ground, having finished twenty swings of the mace—a strength training routine he had taught her three years ago. Manoj Bhaiya wrapped a wet cloth over her shoulders settling cross-legged next to her. "Keep going like this and by next year you'll master dueling too."

"I'll be a married woman by next year. Married women don't practice malla-yuddha."

"Tell that to Rani Lakshmibai."

"She was a Queen, she had to defend her kingdom. What do I need to defend?"

Bhaiya traced a strand of hair which had escaped her left braid, tucking it behind her left ear. His hand was heavy—the hand of a wrestler, a pehlwan, a yoddha. His tiny baby nails looked funny in contrast, swallowed by protruding flesh on the tips of his fingers, scarred yet smooth from years of gripping maces and fisting wet soil. One such fleshy index finger tapped the left side of her temple. "This. You need to defend this, especially now that everyone around you has surrendered. These Angrez are not like any other invaders. They control minds of even the most powerful. Look at your father-in-law for instance."

"Bade Babu? He's not a slave! Amma says he used to be the best wrestler in the village when he was your age, undefeated in the Akhara."

"And now he bows to the Angrez. His body was undefeated, his head is trapped. They've made him think his wealth is their gift to him." Manoj Bhaiya leaned back on his palms, stretching his dhoti-clad legs just as the rising sun streaked the pink sky orange. "In turn, Amma, Pitaji and the rest of the village answer to him. You see Maya, people like us have to defend ourselves from three layers of slavery."

"But why? Everyone else seems happy leaving their minds undefended. Why should I care?"

Before today, Maya had never questioned her brother. Before today, she was just glad about every bit of attention he gave her. If Ashok would wait on him twenty-four seven, she was not far behind. Observing him as he practiced, polishing the maces after Ashok did a lousy job with them, bringing him his tumbler of milk in the morning. Bhaiya would discreetly split the cold, fresh milk with her, away from Amma's watchful eyes. Maya would dust his books as he read the morning paper and bring him food when he studied for matric.

Maya was four, her brother twelve, when she walked into the courtyard while he was practicing mace fighting with Ashok—the latter's spindly arms barely holding the weapon over his shoulders. Manoj Bhaiya had spotted her tiny form. She still remembered how angry his eyes were as he spat at Ashok, "A four-year old girl can do this better than you. Show him Maya. Come here, try lifting the mace over your head."

On shaky knees, she had gripped the wooden mace, her tiny fingers twitching. She was able to lift and keep it over her head for two whole minutes before giving in. Bhaiya had beamed with pride, anger dissipating. Ever since then, Maya never missed an opportunity to impress him.

She learned her Hindi Ka, Kha, Ga, alphabet in two months to recite to him. He had gaped at her recital, grabbing her elbow and walking till they stood before Pitaji, asking her to recite it again. Manoj was the reason why Pitaji enrolled her in the local afternoon school only four other girls from their village attended. He had thrown a tantrum and refused to sit for his own exam until Maya was enrolled too. Pitaji eventually agreed, letting her attend till she was ten. Her brother took over after she was pulled out, sending papers and books along with his own letters from university. His weekly letters had been the highlight of her life since she started staying at home, waiting for Ashok to pass matric and marry her.

She was five when her father fixed her marriage to Ashok, and the very next day her brother snuck into her room an hour before dawn, dragging her out of bed to the far away edge of their agricultural field. Drawing a circle on the wet mud under a peepal tree, he'd turned to her. "Ashok is a weakling so you would need to be the protector in your marriage. We start practicing today."

Yet today, sitting on the same practice spot, he glanced at her and gave a completely different reason behind her physical training. A reason Maya didn't understand.

"Maya if we don't care, no one else would."

"And why is caring important?"

He crawled over to where three other maces were kept under the peepal tree, rising on his knees to pick up the largest. A metal Gada just like the one Hanuman ji's idol in the temple carried. Maya had tried lifting it once to no avail. The beautiful weapon was rewarded to Manoj when he had won the district championship in mace fighting four years ago. With a solid sphere of a radius of about 12 inches, and a cylindrical handle so wide Maya couldn't hold it even with both hands, it weighed about 35 kilos. Despite its weight, Manoj Bhaiya found amusement in naming it Vayu since it made air whoosh past the wielder when swung with force. Bhaiya touched Vayu to his forehead, lips moving in a silent prayer, before swinging it over his head in the same motions Maya had imitated earlier. Five clockwise circles, five counterclockwise.

His arms and biceps that made him a giant didn't shake when he lowered the mace, although there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Do you know the Angrez use our Gadas too? Weaker versions of it, not as large." He placed the mace back under the tree. "They call it the Indian Club in English. Swing it around in those gymkhanas of theirs, away from the soil of our Akharas, away from the bells of our temples. They mock our Gods, they take apart our temples brick by brick, decorating their gardens, and studies and London museums with them. And yet they use our weapons as playthings. I sneaked into a gymkhana once, it is right next to our college."

Maya gasped. "You could've gone to jail!"

He ignored her concern. "Two English boys were swinging the clubs on a tiled floor. A tiled floor Maya! They were wearing shoes too, black leather ones. They even wear shoes in front of their own God. I saw one of them hit the other on his knee, it cracked I think, his opponent never saw it coming."

"But that's not allowed."

"See you would know that. We fight with honour, they don't know what the word means. They don't understand the rules. They deride our tradition while stealing it. Those who—"

"—Abuse Bajarang Bali can never master his weapon," Maya finished his sentence, a slogan he repeated often.

"Exactly. They'll strike below the waist like the cowards they are." He looked at her, calm fury lacing his low grumble. "It is important to care Maya, because if we don't, we'll forget the rules. We'll strike below the waist. If we don't care Maya, we'll continue to be slaves, and no true bhakt of Hanuman can be a slave."

"Is Bade Babu not a true bhakt then?"

"No, he isn't. He's trapped, so is Ashok. Your future child might have their blood, but I want you to promise me he'll have your mind. Promise me you'll always defend your mind."

Maya knew her destiny was to marry Ashok. Her brother was not trying to change that. She was starting to realise—though not completely—why he had dragged her out of bed at the age of five, why he had made her run, lift, punch, swing and read. He had always been preparing her to enlarge her destiny, to make it bigger than what her father had planned for her. Manoj's plan scared her. Terrified her. Even though she barely understood what he was trying to say.

But Maya wanted to impress Manoj Bhaiya. She always wanted to make him proud. More so than Pitaji. More so than Amma or Savitri Mausi or even Bade Babu. She would do anything for his approval. So, she nodded once, twice, copying the upward twitch of his lips. "I promise."

~.~

a/n

poor Ashok has done nothing wrong to deserve all this slander from this brother-sister duo. but oh well, he'll get the side character treatment. 

Another important clarification, the dialogues expressing disdain for the colonialists in this chapter (and in more chapters to come) reflect only the characters' sentiments. I do not endorse this belief that an entire group/race/nation of people do not possess honour, however they had a different understanding of the same, fundamentally different from the characters in this story. Further, the mentioning of the British people wearing shoes and not even "respecting their own God" is also just to highlight cultural differences between the main characters and their colonizers, it is not me expressing ANY KIND of criticism for expressions of faith in different religions. Standards of respect, expressions of faith and codes of honour differ in different cultures and I'm glad to live in a time when people across the globe can respect it without mocking or questioning each other. The words of the main characters should be considered in the context of the time period this story is set in, along with their biases against colonizers (even when some would argue these biases were justified).