Free Tiger Hills by Sarita Mandanna

lap. A dimple flashed in and out of one cheek, and when he glanced briefly at Devi his eyes were a merry, sparkling brown. Thimmaya sprinkled rice over Machu’s head and pressed a coin into his hands. “You have done us all proud, monae,” he said simply. “A true son of Coorg.”
    Machu bent to touch Thimmaya’s feet. “It is your blessings, anna,” he said, and his voice seemed to Devi like honey gliding down the inside of her arm. She hid behind Thimmaya’s back, quite forgetting even to look at the tiger.
    â€œAre you tired, kunyi?” Thimmaya asked anxiously later, as sheclung to his hand in the crowds. “Why are you so quiet? Shall we go find Tayi and ask the ladies to get you some dinner?”
    Devanna came rushing up to them by the food hall. “Devi! Here you are. I have been searching all over for you. Did you see the Reverend? He is here, too. And the tiger, did you see the tiger? My cousin Machu killed it. My cousin! Did you meet him? Come on, you must meet him!”
    â€œNo, no … ,” Devi protested, but Devanna was already dragging her along. She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat and stole a shy glance at the bridegroom. The ladies of the village had walked through the gathering a little while before, bearing gongs and small brass pots filled with water; with dinner announced, the crowds around the tent had dispersed. Machu had arisen from his stool and was holding court, a group of giggling young lovelies hanging on his every word. “Oh, Machu,” they exclaimed breathily, hands pressed to their pert bosoms, “tell us again how you brought down this beast.”
    â€œMachu anna,” Devanna called from behind the brocaded bustle of their saris, “this is my friend Devi.” Machu dimpled affably and waved. Devi felt her stomach slide. She forced a smile, peeling her lips back from her teeth. “My father says that you … ,” she began brightly, then halted midsentence. Machu had already turned back to the women.
    â€œMachu anna,” Devanna called hopefully again, but Machu was too engrossed in recounting his tale to pay them any attention. “Well, never mind,” Devanna said resignedly to Devi, “at least you got to meet him.” He took Devi’s arm and turned to leave. A sudden anger spurted within Devi and she shook herself free of his grasp.
    â€œSo you killed this tiger?” she demanded rudely. “Why is everyone making such a fuss? It doesn’t seem that dangerous to me.”
    There was a collective squawk of outrage from the women. “Just listen to the brat!” one of them exclaimed. “Not dangerous?” exclaimed another. “No, it isn’t dangerous at all, hanging dead from the roof, but what would you do, I wonder, if you saw it coming at you in the jungle? Wet yourself, I should imagine!”
    â€œI would not,” cried Devi indignantly. “I … I am the bal battékara. I’m just as good as any hunter.” She knew how silly her words sounded even as they came out of her mouth; she could see Devanna gaping at her from the corner of her eye. “Besides,” she continued in a sudden burst of inspiration, as she triumphantly crossed her arms, “this tiger doesn’t even have any claws.”
    The women glanced at one another and then burst out laughing. A particularly tall girl bent down to Devi. “It doesn’t have any claws, kunyi, ” she said, deliberately emphasizing the word, “because it was declawed after Machaiah killed it. The claws have been removed to be fashioned into brooches and earrings for the Kambeymadas. Like this one.” She pointed to the brooch that lay curved upon her bosom, fastening her sari to the velvet blouse below. A crescent of a claw, the palest green tapering into ivory, stripped of all menace by its capping of gold.
    Devi’s cheeks grew hot with embarrassment.