Archive of Our Own

I. Lacchu

Watch duty didn't take such a toll on him before. Usually, Lacchu didn’t mind the stillness of hours on end staring at trees. If anything, he found it soothing.

In all those months following Malli’s kidnapping and their lives changing forever, being away from home only served to remind him of how much he yearned to go back to the forest. He had seen enough of cities, buildings, and action for a lifetime. Yet, lately, the reliable stillness of the Aliabad Forest that was once a comfort to him started to make it difficult to keep his eyes open. More than once, Lacchu woke up to the next guard throwing small rocks at him.

He blamed it on Bheem.

Since Ram abruptly left the village, Bheem passed his days hauling around like leaves in the wind.

Frequently, Lacchu found the man silently looking at nothing, lost in his own head. That wasn’t good for him, or for the general morale of their troops, and neither did it help the inescapable gossip raised by Ram’s sudden departure in the arms of his betrothed. Lacchu had listened to those whispers before, sometimes inside his own home, quietly chewing on his food while his sisters wondered.

(That Bheem was never anything but polite to friends and strangers. That maybe he could be a tad gullible, at times, but he was never unjust. That Bheem had opened his home to them. That Bheem forgave so much, what could he possibly have done that didn’t deserve the same kindness in return? That it was probably a good thing, what Sita did, because she was Ram’s soon-to-be wife, and Bheem was just a friend, and Ram had been there for far too long, and it wasn’t right for Ram to forget where his priorities lie.)

When Bheem started missing their daily training sessions, Lacchu decided he had enough.

He didn’t need to know much about what weighed in Bheem’s mind, he just needed to make the load a little bit lighter.

So, he took it upon himself to drag Bheem to the field each morning and stayed with him until their tops were soaking wet and they collapsed on the ground, out of breath – granted, it was mostly Lacchu doing the collapsing.

All that physical activity also made Lacchu unbearably tired. 

Truth is, he was dozing off for maybe half an hour when he spotted a familiar shape approaching among the trees.

He couldn’t wait to see the look on Bheem’s face when he learned that Ram was back.

In the morning, Lacchu applied massage oil to his sore shoulders and thighs. He noticed that his index finger had swollen during the night. Nothing painful yet, but his joints would probably be stiff all week. He had been told it was caused by badly placed scar tissue, and that he would be dealing with it for the rest of his life. He made a mental note to look for someone to cover his next shifts in case there was a need to pull the trigger.

Annoyingly clicking his tongue, he finished dressing and left the hut. There was a table set at the usual spot, surrounded by early risers getting ready for work. He approached the people there, and didn’t even take the time to greet them before asking the question that was itching in his brain since the day before:

“So, how did Bheema take it?” He was almost swaying at the ball of his feet with excitement. No more sad eyes. No more pouting. No more posing as weight for squatting, hopefully.

He pictured the smile on Bheem’s face. A real one, not the ones he gave these days whenever he noticed someone worrying too much about him.

The people just stared at Lacchu, confused.

“Did he grin from ear to ear or did he not?” He drew himself a smile with his index finger.

Still nothing. Lacchu frowned.

“When Bheema saw Ram,” he clarified.

“Ram?!” someone yelped.

“Wait, Ram is here?!” someone else questioned.

“Since when?!” yet another shouted.

“Why didn’t you tell us that Ram was here?!” And that was Loki.

“I didn’t think I needed to tell! He walked right through the southern road! How did you miss him?!” His frown deepened. Around the table, people shared equally confused glances at one another. “Wait, has no one seen Ram?”

The guard who threw rocks at him joked that Lacchu must’ve slept on his watch and had a dream. Someone else suggested that maybe Ram was just walking by on his way to another village, which would be an absurd thing to say, if it wasn’t for Loki's previous comment about not expecting Ram to be back so soon after leaving on Bheem’s birthday. The table was suddenly very quiet after that, as usually happened whenever the episode was mentioned.

While they kept speculating around the table, Lacchu filled his hands with poori and walked around to check the stables.

Vidudala was standing outside, alone, eating from a path of tall grass. Not a vision, then. Lacchu ate his breakfast, gave the horse some of his food too, and then guided him back inside with the others. Next, he made his way to Bheem’s hut.

He was sure he told Ram where to find Bheem, but he wasn’t so sure that Ram was able to find the way by himself. Maybe the man got lost in the jungle. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Bheem’s hut was positioned at the far edge of the village. Same as he did every morning for nearly two months now, Lacchu walked up the front steps and pushed the door open. This time, the door didn’t budge. He tried it again. Nothing.

“Bheema?” He loudly knocked on the wood. “Anna, are you there?”

Lacchu stopped knocking when he heard movement inside. Fabric and feet. Bheem’s voice, slightly short of breath, called:

“Coming!”

He tried yet another push, curious, just to meet the same result.

"Don’t-! Only a minute!”

The noises were back, louder than before. Something being dragged across the floor. Cloth pulled. Whispers. Steps. Then, a heavy piece of wood was kicked from beneath the door from the inside. Suddenly, he saw Bheem’s face in the crack. Just his face. He didn’t open the door enough for Lacchu to see much more.

“Hi?”

Lacchu pushed through, barging in.

“I think we may need a search party, anna, Ram may’ve gotten lost aga- Oh. You found him!”

There was a second straw mat on the floor on the opposite side of the hut, and a man was lying in it, covers pulled up to his ears. He recognized the back of that head instantly.

“Yes, but he’s asleep now, so why don’t yo-?”

That was what Lacchu had gathered as well, and why he lowered his voice upon seeing him, but suddenly Ram was turning to face them, wide awake. He pointed an accusatory finger at Lacchu, only to think better of it and hold on to his coverings instead.

“One time,” Ram hissed between his teeth. “I got lost one time. For how long will you hold that over my head, snake?”

In his peripheral vision, he caught Bheem covering his face with his hand.

“As long as you react to it that way, dog,” Lacchu hissed back. He addressed Bheem, twisting his nose. “Anna, you really should open a window. It smells funny here.”

Very carefully, Bheem took his fingers away from his eyes and simply stared at him for a bit too long.

“I will do that,” he smiled, not breaking eye contact. “Thank you, Lacchu.”

It was an odd smile. Not nearly close to the friendly beam Lacchu had imagined all day. He still had a large grin of his own and was expecting no less of Bheema. Instead, he met a strange apprehension. Lacchu looked down for the first time and noticed that Bheem had tied the fabric of his dhoti around his waist like a skirt but hadn’t finished the folds properly between his legs. He wasn’t wearing much else besides it. The man noticed him noticing it. Bheem glanced at Ram on reflex, which made Lacchu do the same. The other had eyes so wide it was like he was standing face-to-face with a firing squad.

Lacchu tried not to wonder, but sometimes it was difficult to be purposely that daft.

“I should go,” Lacchu said next, more high-pitched than he intended. “Lots of…. Cattle to…”

“Yes.”

“…Harvest and stuff. Bye.”

“Good work, brother. Same time later?”

Lacchu very deliberately did not look over his shoulder as he waved a thumbs up in the general direction of the door, and walked down the stairs as fast as he could without classifying it as running.

.

Same time later, his feet took him to the training field.

Lacchu was not surprised to see that Ram was there as well, nor was he taken aback that several people had decided to join them that morning. He heard the commotion that spread like wildfire when the man from Visakhapatnam finally made his presence known to the people who embraced him as one of their own.

The thing is, people generally liked Bheem. He just had one of those faces. With Ram, it was different. Somehow, one couldn’t help but want him to like you.

It used to make Lacchu uneasy, how easily Ram could command a room simply by stepping inside of it. At some point, Lacchu had worried if that primal feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn’t just a malformed scar left on his body, like an eventual swollen finger. It didn’t take long for him to have an answer to that question. No – it wasn’t. Ram was the kind of man who took control of any situation. He was the one you seek, when lost, for directions.

Now, he kept casting furtive glances at Lacchu from across the field, like he was expecting Lacchu to be the one to show him the way.

Bheem, blessed with blissful unawareness, seemed to be in a particularly very good mood.

Lacchu didn’t exceptionally mind that their daily ritual had been invaded and Bheem’s attention was solely somewhere else. He had always known that he was a poor replacement for Ram. Besides, Lacchu hadn’t seen his friend in such good spirits for so long, he couldn’t help being dragged into the vertex of his cheerfulness.

For someone who wore his happiness so openly, Bheem could hold things very close to his chest when he judged them too heavy for anyone other than himself to carry. He was very young when he was appointed the Gond protector, and younger still when the village first took notice of his strength. Lacchu didn’t allow himself to speculate much, however, sometimes, he wondered about the solitude of his friend’s life mission.

He guessed it made sense. Few people could understand the weight on his shoulders as much as the man currently sitting on them – at some point, someone asked if Bheem could lift Ram, to what Bheem looked to the man arching his eyebrows expectantly, and Lacchu didn’t think Ram would allow ever it, but he did.

Bheema looked simply overjoyed.

.

As soon as they were done for the day, Lacchu collapsed in the shadow of a tree and tried to find his breath again. Most men were drinking water on the other side of the field, but Ram parted from them and came straight to him, sitting by his side.

They didn’t say anything to one another for a long time.

Lacchu did not ask about Sita. He thought about it, but he didn’t. Instead, he asked:

“What the hell are you made of?” He took a big intake of air, relishing being able to breathe from his nose again. “You haven’t broken a single sweat!”

Ram chuckled, not hiding his amusement.

“Discipline,” he answered. “A good diet. Genetics help, too.”

“I knew there was a trick.” Lacchu put his arms up to tie his hair always from his face. He scoffed. “The gods really do play favorites, don’t they?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

The reply wasn’t meant to make him feel guilty about the joke, but it still accomplished it. It was in the casual way with which Ram said it, as if the violence he was subjected to his entire life didn’t reach him anymore. Lacchu almost said he was sorry, but if there was one thing he knew about whatever relationship they cultivated through the last fourteen months, it was that they never apologized to one another.

“How long will you be staying?” He asked in its place. Lacchu may not know much, but he knew that Ram always had to go and that Bheem always had to stay.

He felt Ram moving uncomfortably in his spot.

“Why do I keep hearing this question? I’m starting to feel like you Gonds are trying to kick me out.”

This time, Lacchu was the one chucking.

Out of nowhere, Ram asked him the strangest question yet.

“How much do you know about my upbringing?” 

“I wasn’t there for Sita’s retelling,” he said, then quickly regretted mentioning her name. “But I heard enough,” he added. “Why?”

Which is why they’re here, with a swollen finger, and a dent in his tooth that he grew the habit of pushing his tongue against as a reminder. Yet, when he searched within himself, Lacchu found no anger. He knew better than that. That’s what the Empire did. They forced their hands upon one another, so they’d be too blind by rage to see that joining them would make them stronger. Lacchu was a different man, back then. They all were.

He still had nightmares, sometimes. A small room. Dimmed lights. The certainty of death. Bheema’s back ripped apart and his blood covering Lacchu’s feet. So much anger he thought he would drown in it. How could Bheem not drown in it? How could he swim above it? How could he be so good? Lacchu wanted to be that good, too.

He knew that Bheem thought that Lacchu wanted to be like Ram. He was wrong. More than once, Lacchu had seen Ram walking around the village late at night, lost not in the present but in a memory. He knew that, sometimes, Ram couldn’t sleep too.

Lacchu had never seen Bheem lose a single night of sleep.

That morning in the training fields, Ram nodded.

“I took on a mission to ensure that no one else would have their homes taken from them, as they took mine,” he said. “But if I can be candid with you, and I’m saying this because I think you will understand it… It has always been more about retribution than reparations. Rage…” He shook his head. “It’s an isolating feeling. I’ve learned that love can be a fuel just as powerful, if not more, and that I can build myself a home again.”

Lacchu followed his line of sight, although he already knew what Ram was looking at.

“We must not let them break us,” he said. “Our bodies, our minds, or our hearts.”

Ram was always looking at one of two things: their motherland’s colors, of Bheem. There were no flags in sight in that field.

Only then Lacchu noticed that Ram wasn’t wearing a matrimonial thread on his wrist anymore. It was difficult not to when the man kept scratching the place where the knot used to be, as if he was still trying to find comfort in his own bare skin.

“I can fight just as hard from here,” he kept going, the vulnerability gone from his voice as suddenly as it had appeared. “There’s plenty of people we must teach how to defend themselves. I hope you can accept me, brother.”

“I already told you yesterday,” Lacchu replied. “Welcome home.”

He had never seen tears in Ram’s eyes before. It was upsetting, to say the least. That warrior who carried Lord Rama’s name, made of fire and duty, suddenly looked like nothing more than just a man.

Very quietly, Ram said:

“He is my home, you know?”

To what Lacchu responded:

“I know.”

And then.

“People will talk. Some already do.”

Ram sighed heavily.

“I know.”

Ram opened his mouth to a noiseless gasp for breath, the rapid beating of his heart echoing in his throat making it difficult to pull air into his lungs. Consciously, he knew that his body was crafted to endure an inhuman amount of pain and stress. Those limits have been put to test more times than he cared for, pushing himself to keep moving when he wanted nothing more than to lie down and close his eyes for a second; to keep going forward, never rest, never stop , or else… Yet, Ram found himself unable and unwilling to do so. Usually, the trick was finding a way to disconnect, but he has never been so hyper-alert in his senses.

After everything, this is how he felt most defenseless.

“Is this okay, bangaram?”

He opened his eyes, meeting a familiar pair of brown ones in the dark.

“Yeah.” His voice sounded far away, but he wasn’t concerned. Bheem could always find him anywhere. “I just need a second.”

“All the time you need,” he said softly and kissed his mouth.

Ram got up on his knees and reached back to make an adjustment, then he tried sinking again. He exhaled, head tipping back. There it was, the frantic beating on his throat. Sweat dripped down his forehead. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out of it.

“Does it feel good?” Bheem’s voice was barely a whisper, the man breathless himself. Ram could make out every shift and nuance of his expression even with all candles blown off. He had perfected seeing Bheem in the dark. “Talk to me,” he asked through half-hooded eyes.

Ram’s answer was to lift a hand and cover Bheem’s face with his open palm.

“Shush,” he said hoarsely. “You talk too much.”

The man beneath him grew quiet, and Ram closed his eyes and kept bending his knees until he felt a pair of sturdy thighs under his own. Bheem’s legs were like tree trunks, pure function and muscle. His shoulder under his free hand was the same. Strong and firm except for a few thin, soft lines. Ram ran his fingers through the scars there.

Ram’s head slouched forward, and his forehead came to rest on the back of his own hand still firmly covering Bheem’s face. They breathed together for a while until something cold and wet ran through his palm. Ram quickly took his hand away.

“Did you just lick my hand?”

“Did you just try to hide my face?”

He didn’t have an answer to that. That was exactly what he did.

Bheem was particularly chatty whenever Ram was trying to make love to him, which could be both endearing and excruciating. That was one of the excruciating times. If Bheem started going into his long rants of adoration at that moment, Ram felt he could die. That’d be the thing to kill him. He would instantly combust on the spot. That would be an embarrassing way to go. Not the martyr finale he always envisioned for himself.

“I love your face,” he said. “It’s just a very talkative face, at times.”

Bheem shifted his legs, and Ram held onto his shoulders with both hands. It wasn’t painful. It was something else. He was used to Bheem’s fingers, but his cock felt different. Heavy. Stiff but soft. It started a fire within himself.

It’s been weeks since the first time Bheem brought a vial of oil with them to bed. Ram had asked, at the time, if that wasn’t the same substance the man used to lubricate his leather shoulder piece and the straps on his spears. Sheepish, Bheem had admitted that yes, it was, but the oil was made with only natural ingredients, and he had used it on himself several times before. He had thought that Ram was wary of using the oil in his private parts but Ram, however, was more intrigued about how Bheem used that on himself.

Bheem had smiled an innocent smile and looked at him in a way that was anything but. It still made him feel a surge of heat creeping up his neck every time it happened.

“Can I show you?" he proposed.

Ram said yes. And now they’re here.

As much as Bheem adored to give praise when they were naked and rubbing against each other in the dark, he was nothing but considerate, so he kept silent and hid in the crook of Ram’s neck. Ram could still hear his breath in quick puffs on his chest. His body was hot, and so was his mouth when he kissed the skin there open-mouthed, unable to stop himself. His teeth nibbled lightly at his ear. Rough hands slid down the sides of his body, one of them cupping his ass and squeezing tight, the other stroking him. Ram made a face but let out no noise.

Bheem groaned.

“Please…” He was pleading now, fingers scratching Ram’s skin. “I need to know if you’re feeling good too, nā prēma. Because you feel so good to me.”

Ram opened his eyes again. Bheem was looking up at him in a way that made him think of that word he used once. Worship. Ram realized, then, that he wasn’t the only one stripping off his defenses. There was something desperate in that request.

Bheem pushed his hips off the mat, thrusting deeper. Ram pressed his lips so close together they turned into a line.

“No. Please. Let me hear you,” Bheem begged, eyebrows pinched.

He didn’t know if he could do that. Not because he didn’t want to, but because words were not enough to describe the things Bheem wanted him to say. 

Ram took his face in his hands and adjusted his knees around Bheem’s thighs as he leaned forward to press his lips to his ear. He pulled up until Bheem was barely inside of him anymore, and then slowly sunk back down. He could feel it arising within himself, a noise wanting to escape his chest. Ram let it. It was the best he could do. He moaned into Bheem’s ear.

With a jolt, Bheem pulled him all the way down onto his lap.

“Ah!”

Bheem grunted along.

He was pressing him down so hard he would leave his fingertips printed onto Ram’s hips in the morning.

“I only meant for you to tell me I feel good inside of you…” he admitted. “But you showing me like that is so much better. Can I make you do that sound again?”

“Yes.”

Bheem moved his hands from his hips to his back, supporting Ram’s weight as he lifted them and shifted their positions, gently placing him lying on the mat. He kissed his mouth again, holding his thighs as he started to move with a growing rhythm.

Ram hugged him close to his chest and kept saying things into his ear without using any words. They never needed them before. Ever since that first day, all it ever took was a glance, and they knew all there was to know.

Lacchu knocked on the door two times and waited.

“Coming!” A voice answered from within.

A few moments later, he heard the piece of wood that kept the door locked being kicked away from the inside, and the door opened wide to reveal Bheem. He was dressed in his practice clothes, a sleeveless kurta and a light dhoti properly tied between his legs. Behind his back, Lacchu saw two straw mats pushed too close together. He recognized the back of the head of the one still lying in it.

It’s been months since his arrival, and Ram hadn’t left yet. Lacchu was starting to suspect that, this time, he wouldn’t be going anywhere. There was no need to. Here was his home.

“Isn’t he joining us today?” He asked Bheem.

"Let him sleep a little longer. Is it alright if it’s just the two of us, brother?”

Lacchu smiled.

“Sounds perfect.”

And it was.

.

II. Loki

Jal, Jangal, Zameen.

Loki watched the words fluttering on the flag placed on top of the biggest house she has ever seen in her entire life.

The farmhouse belonged to a military family that had become influential landowners under the blessings of the British Empire. Or used to belong. She walked through the luxurious rooms as if they were their own, not theirs, because they were now, the same as the land those rooms were built upon had always been before. It’s been a few weeks since they had reappropriated that farm. Some of the previous residents had been killed, some had ran away, and some others – mostly the workers – had joined them. Now, they were building houses for the families who were staying.

When Bheem and Ramaraju called a meeting to ask for volunteers of various expertise, including washing and cooking, she didn’t think twice before offering her name. She may not be able to do much about construction or firing weapons, but she could do that.

Whatever she could do to make them pay, big or small.

Bheem was eating sitting on the floor on the porch outside, talking to the man in charge of the operation. There was a perfectly good dining table in the house, but he refused to sit on it. Earlier, he had asked the men to tear it apart and use the wood for something useful. When Loki passed through him, he smiled and nodded at her, and she patted his head in return.

Loki walked among the improvised streets of people and tents, looking for one in particular. When she found it, she stood at the door and whistled.

“Come on in.”

She found him surrounded by piles of books, which was surprising since he hadn’t brought any. She noticed that she had seen those titles before, inside the general’s private library. Ramaraju lifted his head from his current read as the woman placed a plate before him.

“Oh, Loki. You didn’t have to…”

“Eat,” she commanded in her best motherly voice.

Ramaraju blinked up at her and, for a moment, she pictured what that strangely strong man was like as a child. He intrigued her. Most of the time, Ramaraju commanded everyone around him as only someone sure of where they were heading could do. Other times, he seemed so lost for guidance himself.

He closed the book, added it to the top of the nearest pile, and took the plate.

“Thank you.”

They sat in companionable silence, where he ate, and she flipped absently through one of the books he had stolen. Claimed. Reappropriated.

“I saw the slogan,” she commented. “Seems so official.”

“Does it worry you?” His tone was conversational, but there was an underlying question there she couldn’t grasp. She raised her eyebrows, and Ramaraju elaborated. “That he carries a slogan now?”

“Does it worry you?”

“Immensely.” He didn’t have to think about it for a second. “It also makes me proud of all he has accomplished, and sure that he is exactly where he needed to be. Many people will fight by those words, akka. But he is not my protector.”

She smirked. “Is he not?”

Ramaraju gave her a quick furtive glance and Loki thought of a little boy again, caught in places he shouldn’t be wandering about, instead of a ferocious war machine. She liked to tease him. It was way too easy.

But a bow and arrow rested against one of the many stacks of books. Beside them, a rifle. They were talking over a crate of bullets. She has seen him in action, trotting through the forest like a wild thing at Vidudala’s back, his long beard and even longer hair making his pretty features hard and dark. There was a scar just below his ribs she tended to herself. He was burning hot with a fever for three days straight, and Loki had never seen Bheem cry like that before. People told all sorts of whimsical stories about him, and Loki knew better than to believe them because she had seen how much flesh and blood he was made of. Yet, somehow, she did.

“Does he worry that they call you Manyam Veerudu?” she asked.

Ramaraju inhaled deeply, irritated. He finished chewing and swallowing.

“Lacchu thinks it’s funny.”

“'How can a Hero of the Jungle get lost in the jungle?!’” Loki made a poor attempt at mimicking their friend’s voice.

“One time. And I’ll never hear the end of it.” He rolled his eyes, scooping a piece of meat between his fingers. He glanced at her again, the way he did when he was pondering his next words very carefully. “Bheem likes it. Thinks it’s flattering,” but there was more. The next thing he said while shoving more food in his mouth. “He doesn’t know who started it.”

She shook an inquiring shoulder, not knowing it herself. Does one ever know how these things spread? It’s how conversations turn into stories that turn into myths.

“It came from the other side of the Godavari,” he finally said. “I don’t think it’s meant to be a compliment.”

Loki sighed, sitting back. As kindly as she could, she said:

“Ram, don’t be stupid.” He raised his eyebrows from behind his nearly empty plate. “The people of Visakhapatnam love you.”

“Perhaps,” he spoke to the porcelain in his lap.

“No one thinks you abandoned them but yourself.”

She saw his shoulders jolt, but he didn’t say anything to counter it.

When he was done, Loki took his plate. She asked him if he needed anything else, already knowing that even if he did, he wouldn’t ask. She bent down and took the sweaty clothes thrown in a corner anyway. There was a sleeping mat underneath it. Everywhere else she looked, the floor was covered in piles of books.

“He is going to be mad that I didn’t wash our clothes again,” Ramaraju commented absently, but she noticed that he didn’t protest her taking them.

“You either get rid of some of these books,” she said. “Or I’ll ask the men to put up a different tent for Bheem.” To illustrate the issue, she walked over one of the smaller piles to get to the door. “The two of you can’t possibly fit in here.”

Ramaraju looked around, puzzled, as if he was only now contemplating the consequences of his actions. He scratched the side of his forehead, then reached for a couple of books near his leg, stacking them into a taller pile.

“I will make it work.”

“You sure?” She was already half out of the tent. “You know he snores, right? I can hear it two tents over. He sounds like a dying pig. Don’t you want a good night of sleep?”

Ramaraju laughed.

“I’m used to it. It’s sort of soothing, in a way. Like a lullaby.”

Loki made a disbelieving noise.

“There are things that are worth sacrificing yourself for, Ramaraju,” she said. “Submitting to Bheem’s night noises in a tent this small is not one of them. If you change your mind, let me know.”

Ramaraju thanked her once more, and Loki saw him picking the book back up and opening it before she pulled down the door ties. She knew he was not going to change his mind.

She hadn’t walked more than three steps back to the house when she saw Bheem coming down the same path. When they crossed through one another, they stopped for a second to quickly exchange words. Bheem wanted to know if she needed anything, and Loki wanted to know the same of him. He asked if Ramaraju had eaten, and she assured him that he did. He thanked her. She was starting to get annoyed at those men thanking her. They brought her daughter back home. Every day, they risked their own lives fighting for the lives of people they have never met and never would. They owed gratitude to no one.

A few seconds after they parted, she heard it:

“Rama!” Bheem shouted, exasperated. “Why did you bring so many books inside?! There’s no space!”

Loki snorted, shaking her head and thinking to herself that, at times, they were as good as overgrown boys.

“What are you reading?”

Ram briefly took his eyes off the pamphlet and glanced at the tent’s entrance, where Bheem was kicking off his sandals to the side.

“It’s one of your communist friends’ newest manifestos,” he answered, adjusting his neck as he went back to the words.

The sounds of another person moving around filled the small space. Opening and closing water pots, putting away his gun, gently reallocating a few remaining books that Ram refused to get rid of. Ultimately, Ram heard him pulling at the knots that kept the door open.

“I was thinking about sleeping with the door open,” Ram informed him. “It’s insanely hot today. I thought the camp would get cooler when the sun set, but…”

“Mm-hmm. Are you finding it an interesting read?”

“Of sorts. Your friend, I think he’s trying to convert me.”

“Into what?” Bheem sounded amused, his steps now coming closer to the thin mat Ram was sitting on. His shadow covered the pages, so Ram leaned to the side, seeking the light. “We are already all communists here.”

“Are we now?” He used no small amount of sarcasm on that. “Do you want me to read it aloud for yo- Bheem!” The pamphlet was suddenly gone from his hands. Ram lifted his head ready to argue, but then the culprit of theft hastily straddled his thighs and positioned himself sitting on his lap. “What are you doing?” He questioned, annoyance turning into mild interest.

Ram took a good look at Bheem’s face for the first time that evening. He knew that look. The man bit his lip into a smile, and Ram quickly glanced at the tent’s door to confirm if it had been closed.

“I’m making an argument in the name of the red wave,” he said, raising an index finger in the air. He always did that when reciting back something Ram had read for him before. “The people have nothing to lose but their chains.”

Bheem could read most texts by himself if he put his mind to it, Ram had personally taken the role of his teacher and knew that the man was a fast learner. Still, he told him once, when Ram questioned if he found academic papers too difficult, that he just liked to hear his voice. So, some nights before sleep, Bheem put his head over Ram’s chest in bed, and Ram read to him.

It didn’t seem like he was interested in Ram’s mouth for the words coming out of it that night. Shifting on his lap, Bheem planted a kiss on his lips.

Ram grabbed him by the back of the neck, closing his fingers on his soft curls to guide his mouth where he wanted it. Bheem sucked on his skin and Ram closed his eyes. He missed this. They were together all day, but he missed him terribly.

“I hope this isn’t what you’re doing when you’re out recruiting,” he joked and sighed. “Although I must admit, it’s a rather effective tactic.”

“Oh, no, just this one recruit,” Bheem whispered in the curve of neck and shoulder. “He is very special. Imposing. Strong. Intelligent. Very handsome too.”

“Is that a prerequisite to becoming a comrade nowadays?” Ram couldn’t help but prod. “Handsomeness?”

“Haven’t you got to the part of the manifesto yet? It’s imperative for the morale to look good while building new houses for the victims of exploitation.”

Ram pulled him away. For the second time that evening, he took a good look at Bheem’s face. And then he laughed.

“Is this what got into you? Were you watching me helping with construction?”

Bheem did not blush. He didn’t even look decomposed for a second. If anything, he was more determined. Ram wanted to keep making fun of him, even if just to see if he could get him to look sheepish. However, he was more intrigued that, apparently, his hard work did something to the other. The places where their genuine affection for one another turned into desire was a path that never ceased to amaze him. Or maybe it was just that they were confined in this small tent for weeks now, too aware of the thin fabric they had for walls to do more than share a few hurried kisses and allow some wandering hands that felt lacking when they had everything before.

Interesting, how one could go their entire lives without missing something if they didn’t know it was absent, but once they held it in their hands just once, life without it lost all meaning.

Bheem shifted on his lap again, and Ram felt a bulge against his stomach. The tent was quickly growing warmer. Bheem put his arms around his shoulders as he kept moving on his lap, very obviously trying to feel a bulge too.

Instinctively, Ram placed his hands on his hips. He heard Bheem wetting his lips near his ear before he said:

“You could get into me.”

Ram most certainly did not blush, either.

“…Ram?”

It may have taken him a while to find his composure again.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Ram said, although he hoped to be persuaded into a change of heart. Bheem was humping a growing erection now. “The walls… They can see the shadows outside, and… There’s a lot of people-” He couldn’t even think straight to finish a sentence. “You are very loud when you’re the one...”

“I’m sorry. You take such good care of me when you make me yours, bangaram. I can’t help myself.”

He was doing it on purpose. There was absolutely no way Bheem wasn’t doing it on purpose. Ram stared at the ceiling and asked himself how there was ever a time in which he thought this man was innocent, of all things. The worst part was, he knew it was an act, but it was still working.

“I can be quiet,” he bargained, already working on the top buttons of Ram’s kurta. “I promise.” His mouth found the exposed skin there. “I’ll blow out all the candles and be so quiet.”

Ram moved his hands to Bheem’s cheeks, cupped his face, and pulled him from his chest to his mouth. He stopped before they made contact. Bheem’s lips were parted. He looked from Ram’s mouth to his eyes, hungry.

“Can we maybe take turns?” he asked in a low voice. “I like it when you make me yours, too.”

Bheem nodded enthusiastically between Ram’s palms.

“Your guerrilla tactics have defeated me,” he said, firm. “Let’s hoist a red flag alongside our white, orange, and green one, and build a new, better country for our peers.”

And then he kissed him.

Later, Bheem would wake up in the middle of the night with someone trying to force him to roll over. Ram watched the man frown and blink in the dark, taking in his surroundings.

They had reopened the door before sleep and gone separate ways, yet the tent was once again closed, and the inside was quickly getting hotter without its main source of fresh air to cool them off.

“Nightmare?” Bheem asked, already moving to the side and opening an inviting arm.

“No,” the other answered, wriggling as he tried to fit into the mat. “Not this time.”

 "Can’t sleep?” Bheem yawned.

  Ram snuggled back against his chest, letting his head rest on Bheem’s biceps.

“I don’t sleep well apart from you.”

Bheem did not look shy then, but he did now. Ram couldn’t bear the sight of the thing he was doing with his eyes, so he turned around and shut his own. He felt a kiss at the back of his neck as a heavy arm went around his shoulders. Not long after, Bheem was back at snoring in his ear, and Ram finally fell asleep.

Sometimes, Loki had nightmares too. She dreamed of Malli. Or rather, the lack of her.

She sat up and counted her breath until the world came back into focus. It was so hot sweat dripped down her forehead. A walk, she decided, would do her some good. The wind on her face did little to appease the ache in her chest for being away from her daughter for so long, but it did help the matter of the heat.

Close by, she spotted someone else standing in the empty corridors. That night guard seemed familiar. She moved closer, blinking to force her sight to adjust until she could be sure. Yes, she knew the curve of those skinny shoulders.

Lacchu was turned the other way, so the man didn’t notice her until she was close enough for him to hear her steps. He jumped like a stray cat at the noise, the white of his eyes the only thing she could see clearly in the night.

“Loki!” he hurriedly said in a low voice. “What are you doing up? Go back to your tent!”

“I can’t sleep,” she admitted, hoping for comfort from a friend. Instead, his uneasiness alarmed her. He put a hand on her elbow, quickly turning her around.

“Can you not sleep over there instead?”

Rude.

“Why are you being so…?”

They both heard it. She didn’t understand what it was at first, but the white in Lacchu’s eyes grew to a panicked size as if he did. Her first thought was of pain and torture, but it couldn’t be. Not in their camp.

“Please?” Lacchu kept trying to move her away.

The second time they heard it, it was loud enough that she could gather the general location the sound came from. Her eyes fell upon a familiar tent behind Lacchu’s shoulders, and she understood. It was rather the far opposite of what she had initially mistaken it from. The sound was cut short by a loud shushing, and now that she knew, she could make out Ramaraju’s voice speaking too quietly for her to make out any words.

She looked back at Lacchu.

You should tell them.

Lacchu ogled her in return, slightly shaking his head.

No way.

Loki would have worried more if she hadn’t been among Bheem’s comrades for weeks. She had seen them setting up quarters the day of their arrival, unprompted putting up a single tent for Bheem and Ram while every other revolutionary leader got their own. She recognized the same vow of silence their whole village had taken as well, but it was still different here, so although she didn’t worry much, she still worried some. They weren’t only among Gonds and personal friends in that field.

Outside of their forest, no matter how much the people loved them to look the other way, one could never be sure of what others were thinking.

She took Lacchu by the arm.

“Lacchu!” she said loudly, pulling him for a straw. “I didn’t know you were here!”

He resisted for a moment, frightened; a gesture visible by how much she could see the white of his eyes. It didn’t take long for him to stop, understanding.

“Right! Why are you up at this hour, sister?”

They carried a heavy step, crushing leaves and branches.

No sound came from within the tent again.

In the end, they walked arm in arm through the entire camp three times. She accompanied him on his watch and told him about her nightmares, and Lacchu listened before hesitantly telling her of his own. She found the refugee in the presence of a friend that she longed for, offered some in return, and Loki felt a little bit less alone as one only does in the company of family.

They took care of one another in all the ways they could, and for the ways they couldn’t, they knew that someone else would.

Above them, a flag waved in the wind.

Water. Forrest. Land.

.  

III. Venkateswarulu

Raju bent down to touch his feet before trapping him in a tight hug. It’s been many years since he has been as tall as his uncle, yet Venkateswarulu was always taken aback by the strength of his arms. In his mind, whenever he thought of Raju, he didn’t see a little boy, nor did he see a grown man, instead he conjured a gangly teen too old for his age buried in his uncle’s old English textbooks. Always asking too many questions, closely watching his hands as he loaded a gun, observing intently as he buttoned up his uniform in front of the mirror.

“Take me with you, Babai,” he used to ask him whenever it was time to return to his mission in Delhi. “I’m ready.”

Venkateswarulu stalled as long as he could. Not because he didn’t believe him, but because he did. He knew that once he took Raju where he wanted to go, his brother’s eldest and last surviving son may not ever come back.

As it turns out, Raju would come back to them many times over.

The first time he stepped out of a boat to greet them since the last time he left, Raju jumped, alarmed, as the drums roared and the village erupted into music.

The people wanted to throw him a welcome party. Venkateswarulu didn’t stop them.

He smiled as he saw the clear emotion that his nephew tried and failed to hide. For a very long time, he saw nothing but his reflection staring back at him whenever he searched for something inside Raju’s eyes. Now, when Raju smiled back at him, Venkateswarulu could see so much more than just a few happy tears.

It may have taken more than fifteen years, but he was glad that Raju was finally able to find his way back to them.

.

“You seem different,” he said over breakfast the next morning.

Raju lifted a hand, inquiring.

“Is it the hair…?”

The hair was shorter than ever since his first imprisonment, over four years ago. It wasn’t the standard military cut as before, some of it still covered his ears, nape, and forehead. He also favored trimming his beard other than maintaining a mustache. The last time Babai had seen him in the premises of the Aliabad Forrest, the beard was so long it touched his chest. He hadn’t recognized Raju right away, then.

“No, not the hair.”

“But the hair looks good!” Kamya pointed out. Raju looked over his shoulder, smiling appreciatively at his aunt.

“Different how?” he asked Babai, genuinely curious.

Venkateswarulu shook his shoulders and swayed his head.

“Present,” he simply said, and Raju didn’t ask him to clarify. He was sure Raju knew what he meant.

.

Raju did not come to them for parties and pleasantries.

A week ago, Venkateswarulu had sent a letter asking for his assistance on a pressing issue. Their most recent State conference was invaded by a private army put together by anxious aristocrats, armed to the teeth with British weapons. Many men, women, and children had been murdered. The revolutionaries that they could capture were currently being tortured in prison. Among them, several were strong leaders for the freedom fighters’ movement, and personally very dear friends. They’d be publicly hung in a square in just a couple of days.

Raju had sent a message back that read:

“No, they won’t.”

He had expected his nephew to bring Bheem along; they could surely use some of the man’s prison-breaking experiences. However, Raju expressed that Bheem was needed somewhere else. Their soldiers were restless about the imprisonment and execution of their leaders. They all had seen this happen before, but the extent of the arrests was novelty. Bheem was the one man who could herd them back in place behind him, mostly because when he talked, people wanted to listen. They recognized that Bheem was strong, but he never used his gifts lightly, since his strength was not his own but fell upon him to guard others. That strength these days lie as much in his muscles as in his words.

Raju would be the one to help his uncle burn that place down. Bheem may be a protector, but Ram has always been an avenger himself.

They were walking through the village as Venkateswarulu showed him the plans and documents he gathered. From time to time, he noticed that Raju kept looking over his shoulder, as if a shadow caught his eye in every corner. Hopeful, he searched around, and disappointedly found nothing.

It wasn’t until the end of the last night before their mission that he said:

“I haven’t seen Sita.”

Venkateswarulu had been loading ammo onto the truck. If they had to have this conversation, he was glad Raju chose the moment when he had something physical to do.

“You won’t,” he pulled another crate from the floor. “She doesn’t live here anymore.”

Raju lifted his head, clearly surprised.

“What did you expect would happen, koduku?” Venkateswarulu almost snickered, but there was no humor in what happened after the broken engagement.

He still would not have given Raju different advice if he were to make that decision today. Separately, at least they could try to find happiness. Together, marriage would have ruined them into slow bitterness and resentment. He wasn’t sure if the engagement hadn’t done enough permanent damage as it was.

“Sita was already too old to find a husband,” he said from the back of the truck. “And no man would take what was once promised to you. If it were any other man, it’d already be difficult for her, but being you… There was nothing left for Sita in Visakhapatnam.”

When he walked back to the front, he wasn’t expecting to see such guilt and sorrow visible in his nephew’s eyes. Venkateswarulu forgot. This new Raju was present.

He sighed, walking past the crates to stand beside him where he was reviewing the floor plans on top of the hood. Venkateswarulu pulled one of the binders from the side, opened it, scanned the names on the page, and pointed at one.

“Do you remember this man?”

Raju lightened up with recognition.

“Jeeva Rao. We fought together in Krishnadevipeta.”

“He is Sita’s husband now.”

Raju pulled the binder closer. He flipped back the pages to confirm his suspicions, then glared at Babai with wide eyes.

“Were you planning on telling me that he is on the list for hanging?”

He closed the binder in a quick motion, palm so heavy the hood of the truck trembled.

Venkateswarulu shook with it.

“I didn’t know if you wanted to know.”

Raju’s fingers were still pressed on the cover. He stared at his own hand, the other one resting on his hip. When Venkateswarulu looked for it again, he saw it. The fire.

“Is he good to her?”

Venkateswarulu wasn’t sure of what that entitled. He only knew that he had seen Jeeva in the village before, in those years Raju was away, always looking at Sita when he thought no one was paying attention. He heard that Jeeva was the one who went looking for her.

“I believe so,” he said, thinking about how ironic it was that Sita didn’t end up with the man she waited for, but with a man who waited for her.

“Do they have…?” Raju didn’t finish the sentence. It must be strange, to confront the reality of someone else living the life that was meant to be yours, even if Raju would never be the one to give her that.

“One boy.”

He was prepared for more questions, but time passed, and Raju didn’t ask anything else. Venkateswarulu was glad since he had very few answers. He wished he could tell him more, but Sita’s family hadn’t allowed him to get close. It pained him too, but he understood where they came from. She was like a daughter to him once, and now she was a stranger.

“I will bring him back to his family,” Raju finally said, determined. “Even if it’s the last thing I’ll ever do for Sita.”

He patted his uncle’s back and walked past him to lift a crate from the floor.

.

He didn’t think Raju was serious. He should’ve known that Raju was always serious about offering his life in the name of others. He should also have known that the whole setup was a trap from the start.

Bheem arrived in the morning, painting their rivers a vivid red color. The communist from Hyderabad had brought with them several wooden boxes.

“Thank you for coming so fast,” he said as he shook the man’s hand in the port.

“I should’ve been here from the start,” Bheem answered, firm yet visibly strained.

“Then you both would’ve been captured. What good would that serve us?”

He had spotted two metal cages at the back of a truck as they retreated with less men than they arrived, instead of the other way around. Only one of them was occupied. Venkateswarulu hadn’t seen Raju moving in there, but they wouldn’t have bothered with the cage if he weren’t alive.

“They have not killed him yet,” he assured the man that he wasn’t sure if he should call family now. There weren’t many precedents in Venkateswarulu life for what Bheem was to him, these days. Awkwardly, he squeezed his shoulder once.

“No, he is way too valuable.” Bheem’s eyes were full of that fire, too. “They will want to question him first.” And by question, they both knew that the British meant torture. He took Venkateswarulu’ hand and pleaded: “Babai, tell me everything you know.”

When Venkateswarulu asked what was in the wooden boxes, Bheem answered absentmindedly as he sharpened a spear: tigers. Babai didn’t think he was serious, until he stood too close to one of them and almost lost an ear. He should’ve known that Raju would have found himself a man who was always serious about these things, too.

.

“RAM!” Bheem’s roar hit the stone walls and echoed through the long corridor. He marched down the stairs, holding a rifle at eye level.

From above, Venkateswarulu could hear more roars, bullets, and screams.

He walked close behind Bheem, covering his back with Jangu by his side. Along with the barrel of his gun, he pointed a flashlight, examining the faces trapped in tiny cells. The prisoners narrowed their eyes against the light. Recognizing no one, he kept moving.

From behind, Jangu shot another guard.

“RAMA!” Bheem shouted again.

Two shots. Too close to be their companions outside, and too far to be their own.

From afar, Bheem started to run. 

Venkateswarulu and Jangu sped up.

He knew that Bheem had found him as soon as the man stopped in front of a door with eyes as wide as two full moons. He put his rifle on the floor and grabbed at the bars.

Raju was hanging from the ceiling upside down, knees bent and tied to a metal bar while his wrists were handcuffed together over them. Still, somehow, he managed to trap the neck of a guard in the crook of his elbow, another between his calves, and a third was bleeding on the floor. The wounded cop tried to reach for his gun, but Venkateswarulu was faster. He shot him in between his blue eyes. Raju moved the other man far away enough from himself for his uncle to land a clean shot. The third Ram finished by twisting his neck.

It all happened too fast for him to remember to tell one of them to throw over the keys.

A sudden loud growl caught him unguarded, making him jump. The hands Bheem had placed on the bars had turned into fists, and he was pulling with all his strength. The growl turned into a scream. His face became red. A vein in his neck popped. That’s impossible, Venkateswarulu thought, not believing his own eyes showing him the wall shaking and crumbling.

The metal hinges of the cell bent and crashed through solid rock. Bheem threw the useless door to the floor and hurried inside.

Venkateswarulu whisked the rifle he had abandoned before following, turning for a second to motion for Jangu to take cover on the curve of the wall. Promptly, his friend assumed the position to shoot whoever came down the corridor after them. Venkateswarulu occupied himself by kneeling down and inspecting the nearest guard for the keys.

“I’m here, I’m here. We will take you home now. I’m here,” he heard Bheem’s voice repeating over and over. His presence had been nothing but solid since his arrival, but now, away from the prying eyes of his men, or maybe powerless to care, his voice was quivering and cracking. If he was comforting Ram or himself, that was difficult to tell. “I’m here. It’s okay. You are okay,” he kept shushing.

The keys were in the inner pocket of the second guard. Venkateswarulu got up on his feet to see that Bheem was supporting Raju’s weight on his shoulder to try to ease the strain on his joints. He touched his nephews’ cheek and kept repeating hurried words, mostly a torrent of gentle whispers. Raju’s eyes were firm on him, alert. He had a gag over his mouth and his limbs were immobilized, so there wasn’t much more he could do apart from blinking.

Frantically, Bheem grabbed the chains attached to the ceiling and gave them a pull, testing if he could maybe tear them off the hinges the same as he did with the door.

Venkateswarulu pulled his shoulder.

"Hold on! Save your strength, I got the keys.” He showed them to him. It was right in front of his face, yet it took Bheem a few seconds to focus.

Venkateswarulu quickly began working, focusing on the handcuffs first as Bheem kept holding Ram’s naked body up against his chest and shoulder. He used the time Venkateswarulu searched for the right keys to take off Raju’s gag. Immediately, Raju started coughing blood, saliva, and something else. Bheem reached inside his mouth and pulled it off. It was a long, thick cord. The man sobbed, carefully placing the holy thread the torturers had tried to shove down his throat back around Raju’s neck as the other finally relished being able to breathe again.

As soon as the handcuffs opened, Raju collapsed on the floor. Bheem was fast to catch him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he shushed, moving from gentle words to gentle kisses on Raju’s cheeks, forehead, and eyelids.

“Bheem…” Raju called, weakly.

“You will be okay, cub. I’m here. I’m here.” His hands moved anxiously across Raju’s body as if checking if he still had all his limbs attached. “What have they done to you, nā prēma? What can I do?”

“Bheem!” He repeated, firm. Only then did Bheem let go of him enough for Venkateswarulu to see that his face was glimmering with tears.

It rendered him motionless to watch a man who could open a prison cell with his bare hands so openly lose his composure. It also made him wonder how much of that raw panic and despair he had been holding in this whole time.

Raju tried to lift one hand, but his arms were too sore from the strain of the last few days. One of his shoulders bent in an awkward position. Bheem took his wrist and held his palm to his cheek himself, where Raju promptly wiped away his tears.

“There are others. What you can do is go and free them.” He glanced back at Venkateswarulu. “Babai and I can take it from here.”

Bheem took a big intake of air, then another. Finally, his breath came out full again. He pushed both his hands through his face, wiping tears and snot. When he was done, he looked more like the man who made tigers tame and crowds wild. He cupped Ram’s nape and pulled him towards himself, bumping his foreheads together once before he got up.

Venkateswarulu handed him his rifle and Bheem ran back outside with Jangu on his tail.

“Give me his clothes, Babai,” Raju pointed to one of the bodies, already trying to crawl his way into a sitting position. “And his gun.”

He quickly took the guard’s pants and helped Raju into them. The shirt he passed through his good arm, leaving it open.

“Can you walk?” He asked, adjusting Raju’s good arm around his shoulders.

“I’ll need you to carry a portion of my weight,” he admitted. “At least until the blood flows back to my legs. But I can still shoot. Let’s go, we can’t stay here.”

Babai nodded. Raju’s calmness in a time like this was as strangely comforting as it was chilling.

He counted to three, then they got up together with a grunt.

As they headed for the door, Venkateswarulu couldn’t help himself.

“… Cub?”

Raju looked from his own feet to his uncle’s face, close to his own from the way they were tangled in each other. A heavy frown sat between his brows. If because of the pain or the question, that was difficult to tell.

“What about it, sweet rice?”

Venkateswarulu almost lost his footing. How did he know…? When did he hear…?

He stared at his nephew back, mirroring his frown.

“Let’s never talk about this again.”

Raju turned forward and pushed through his next step.

“Agreed.”

.

After they won, Venkateswarulu stood in line with others on the prison patio, holding a gun out to the almost three dozen guards that survived the confrontation. The traitors kneeled on the floor under the sun, hands behind their backs, as their men escorted the rest of the political prisoners to their freedom. A different group was tasked with dragging the bodies outside, sorting them into two piles: the ones they’d burn later, and the ones they’d bring back to their families. He had no idea what happened to the animals.

There was a second line of men with hands tied to their backs not so far away that Venkateswarulu kept looking at. People were far paler and far more important over there. Their medals shone under the bright morning sun.

“This one?” Bheem asked again.

Raju shook his head. Bheem helped him walk down the roll with a gentle nudge on his elbow, not objecting when Raju wanted to stand on his own two feet but remaining close.

“This one?” he repeated.

Raju cast a glance down the line, then he stopped, straightened his back, and pointed.

“That one.” He pointed again. “And that one.”

Turns out Bheem could break way more than prison cells with just his bare hands.

When he was done with the first, he took Raju in front of the second and put a gun in his hand. It was the first of many shots fired that morning.

Venkateswarulu was very glad they were fighting on the same side.

Ram hissed involuntarily. He had never learned how to hide his pain when Bheem stripped him of his clothes and his defenses. The other took his weight away from Ram’s side, leaning on his elbow as he kept placing a trail of kisses down his body.

“I’m sorry,” he said against a dark bruise. “Should I stop?”

“No. It’s okay.”

A bit of silence, and then, sadly:

“It is not."

“It’s not your mission to protect me, as it’s not mine to detain you.”

“I know.” He rested his forehead on Ram’s hipbone, voice heavy with the weight of the last few weeks. They had been home for a couple of days, most of which Ram spent on bed rest. Back at Babai’s house, more than once Ram woke up to see Bheem’s shadow watching over him through the night. Ram held him against his chest and combed his fingers through his hair until he found a restless sleep. Now, safe within the walls of their home, Bheem confessed: “It still scares me as nothing has ever done before.”

“Fear isn't always a bad thing to feel,” Ram told him. “It means you can still care.”

“Will you allow me to care for you?”

His mouth found its way between his legs. Ram closed his eyes, letting Bheem take him whole, and forgot all about war and pain for a moment.

When he was done, Ram sat up with his thighs trapped under Bheem’s and reached between them to stroke him in a desperate rhythm so different from the careful way with which Bheem always made love to him. Ram captured his panting in his mouth, licking all the gasps and moans, and did not tell him to be quiet. This time, Bheem didn’t try to say anything else, as much at loss for words as Ram has always felt.

Bheem reached for a piece of fabric to clean his cum off Ram’s stomach.

“Will you live a hundred lives with me?”

The words caught him unguarded. Ram searched for Bheem’s face, his eyes always so big and full of emotion. He put the cloth aside and took Ram’s hand between both of his, pressing them to his forehead.

“Please say yes. Even if you leave me in this one, nā prēma, I’ll find you again.”

“My Bheema…” Ram took his hand away to cup his cheek. Bheem looked up at him, hopeful. “Don’t you know already that we’re bound to one another for a thousand more?”

He let out a shuddering breath, relief flooding out of him in a crushing wave. Ram dried the tears from his eyes with his thumb while Bheem fiddled with something on his chest. He reached for the thread around Ram’s neck as well, taking a small piece of each to braid them back together into a new string. He held Ram’s wrist, looking up at him with an inquiring smile. It didn’t mean much, in official terms, but it was more about the gesture. What he saw in Ram’s face gave Bheem pause.

“…No?” He stopped with the ends of the thread between his fingers. “Will you not bound yourself to me, bangaram? Why is that?”

“It’s not…” Ram held Bheem’s forearm. He did not want to bring that up now, he knew it always made Bheem sad, even if he had never expressed such aloud. It was difficult for him to understand. The Gonds had different customs regarding marriage, which had been such a blessing for their lives together there, yet it didn’t erase all Ram believed in. All he has promised. Somewhere along his silence, Bheem understood. “I have made such a vow before,” he said anyway because Bheem deserved his honesty.

“You are thinking of her.”

“I always do,” he admitted. “It doesn’t feel fair, even now.”

Bheem smiled.

“I understand.”

“Does it upset you?”

“Sita will always be a part of you, and I love you whole, so I love her too. It doesn’t upset me.”

“I don’t know what I have done in my past lives to deserve you.”

“You’ve done plenty in this one.”

Ram kissed him, desperate. Bheem kissed him back, gentle.

“Can I still wear mine, even if you don’t wear yours?” He asked after they separated.

Ram caught his arm, the one where he always wore a leather piece tightly around his wrist. He took the cord Bheem had just braided together and looped it around his pulse twice.

“A hundred lives,” he said, tying the knot in place. “And then a thousand more, my husband.”

The next time Venkateswarulu called for one of them, Bheem came without Raju, accompanied instead by three men he had never seen before.

They didn’t meet in the village but in the capital. Bheem was once again dressed as a Muslim, the same as the first time Venkateswarulu had first laid eyes on him posing as Akhtar.

They talked about expanding their operation to other parts of the country. Venkateswarulu had the men and the weapons, Bheem had his influence, and Raju was training more recruits by the day back home. It was time they moved further across from India.

Once they were done talking, Bheem’s friends had other things they wanted to do in the city, so Venkateswarulu took the Gond protector out for lunch by himself. Something caught his eye when the man lifted his hand on the plate they shared.

“What do you say when people ask who that is for?”

Bheem lifted his head, mouth and hand filled with curry. He glanced down at what Venkateswarulu was pointing at, then raised his eyebrows, as if only now realizing something.

“No one has ever asked before.” He sounded in awe of the fact, eyes glimmering with amusement.

Venkateswarulu couldn’t say he was surprised, but he was relieved to hear it. He still worried, at times, even if he knew that if someone could defend themselves against all odds, it was those two. Besides, if the police couldn’t arrest them for killing the Governor after so many years, they surely wouldn’t be able to arrest them for such a trivial thing as choosing each other.

“Thank you, Babai,” he said.

“For what?”

Bheem shook his head, apparently not knowing what he was thanking Venkateswarulu for himself. Ultimately, he landed on:

“It takes a good man to raise another.”

Venkateswarulu did not know until then how much he yearned to hear those words. For a long time, he had doubts. He never had children of his own but, in some ways, he had just the one. He smiled awkwardly and lowered his head to his plate, not being a man of many words in the matter of sensitive subjects. He was sure Bheem didn’t mind; he did marry Raju, after all.

Bheem offered him a wide grin and turned to their food, and it was enough.     

.

 IV.  Malli

She was woken by a conversation.

The sun peeked through the fabric of the hammock, and Malli held her breath, making herself lie perfectly still.

That was her favorite thing to wake up to.

Making herself invisible, that’s how she learned all about the fighting and death beyond their corner of the forest; the things they struggled with and when she had no reason to worry; about how they ran their village and how the white people wanted to run it. Things no one would tell her otherwise. She also learned about the search for the soap thief, that one girl who was always running through the streets too late at night thinking no one was seeing, and that Lacchu anna would be getting a wife before the man himself knew about it – she was particularly pleased with that information, cryptically teasing Lacchu for days until, one morning, he grabbed her by the arm.

“Malli, did you know? ” His eyes were wide. That’s how she knew that he knew. “Are they scheming with little girls now?”

She smiled a tight lip smile full of secrets.

In the morning, by the mud chulha outside, the women gossiped. And, sometimes, they didn’t know that Malli was listening.

That particular day, Malli couldn’t tell if they were talking about the business of the war or the quietness of their days, but she heard a name that piqued her interest.

“Bheema is just a man.” He recognized that voice. It was her mother’s best friend, another widow. Most of her mother’s friends were widows, which was why they were there, making food for one another instead of for their husbands. She liked that her mother had these women. They appeased a certain loneliness that spread to corners of Loki’s life that Malli wasn’t big enough to reach.

“He is more than just a man,” her mother replied. “Always has been.”

“He may be special, but he can’t be in more than one place at once. He wasn’t here when they took Malli.”

Her stomach tightened.

Today’s topic was the war, then.

Two nights ago, a village not too far away from their own had been attacked. Annayya wasn’t close to either of them at the time. He was in the city, taken by those men with the red flags to talk to some important people. Ram anna had told her, so proud that she had trouble not laughing at him, that Bheem was giving a speech at the party inauguration. She had no idea why people would give speeches at parties, most parties she went to were more about food and music, but she didn’t want to look dumb in front of Ram, of all people, so she didn’t ask.

Ram anna rode Vidudala with his bow and arrows and guns. They learned in the morning that he chased the trespassers away. No deaths of their own, but a few were injured.

“I’m just saying, if he were to give us his offspring…”

“He is training others to fill his role when he is away,” her mother said with a tight voice. Malli pondered if Loki was still caught in the aftertaste of the memory of when they took her, and Bheem wasn’t there to stop them.

“No one like himself. One day, he won’t be around anymore. Would it be asking too much for him to take a woman and pass his gift along?”

“That’s not for us to decide.” Another voice cut her off. It was one of the quietest widows. “Bheem has already devoted his entire life to be our protector. If there are things he won’t do, it’s because he can’t.”

The women were silent after that.

That happened sometimes when they talked about her annayya. It was like they were discussing a topic without addressing it, making circles around the subject, too cautious of getting too close. A half-conversation that was never truly finished. She wondered if that was an old people thing, speaking in codes, like speeches at parties.

“I like him too. I’m as thankful to have him around as everyone else. But he has spent too long with those westerns.” So they moved on to discussing Ram now. “Got these ideas of love marriage in his head, and now he put those ideas in Bheema’s head too.”

“If you think Bheema would be fathering his children by now if it wasn’t for Ram’s western influence, Anandi, you’re delusional,” her mother said with a chuckle. Other women laughed along. “We always knew he would not be giving us a successor by blood lineage.”

“No woman would ever marry him anyway,” someone else said.

“Can you imagine that?” another voice chuckled. “Having Bheema as your husband?”

They kept on laughing.

Malli felt a sudden surge of protectiveness within her. It was one thing to poke fun at him for being too trusting, too loud, eating too fast, or for the funny way his hair looked flat on one side in the morning. It was a different thing to insult him so personally when he wasn’t there to defend himself. Like his annayya wasn’t worthy of being loved. Was it so unthinkable to want to take care of him the way he took care of others? What was so funny about that thought that they were still giggling? Bheem wasn’t even that ugly!

…Was he?

They started talking about something else after that, but Malli stayed there, staring at the sun peeking inside her hammock, and thinking about Bheem. Sometimes, about her mother, and the nights in their hut where she held on to Malli seeking to seal all those little bits inside of her that were broken and Malli wished she knew how to put them back together.

She knew her mother had nightmares. Malli had nightmares of her own, too.

At least they had one another. Bheem, who has been through so much, had no one.

Malli’s chest filled with melancholy, thinking of him and wondering if even a strong man like that had parts that could be broken, too. How lonely it must be to have no one to cling to him back.

It wasn’t good for her annayya to be alone.

She decided she needed to fix that.

.

Malli generally tended to avoid the village matchmaker on principle.

On more than one occasion, the woman had tried to talk to Loki about her daughter. Her mother used to be firm about Malli being too young, but then Malli turned thirteen and was now quickly rolling into fourteen, so she was starting to feel her mother slowly cracking under the pressure.

She still had a few years to go before being unable to avoid the matchmaker any longer. Malli treasured the distance. That morning, though, she went straight to her.

“Oh, who do we have here?” Medhaavi was sweeping the front of her home, and her eyes lit up at the sight of Malli. Her hair was white, yet she looked younger than most elders. Something was unsettling about that. Or it was just that Malli found her unsettling in general. “Does your mother need more medicine for that harsh, Malli?”

“Good morning, aunty. No, that’s healed.” Malli fidgeted with her hands behind her back. “She said thank you.”

“I’m glad. Does she need anything else?”

Malli looked to the side, and then the other. Some people were occupying the streets around them.

“Can we… Talk inside?”

Medhaavi frowned, puzzled, but beckoned her in with a flick of her wrist. She brought the broom along through the door, which she didn’t lock behind them. The woman offered her some food and Malli refused. This was not a social call; she was on a mission. She primly folded her hands on her lap, and told her:

“I want to request a match.”

“Is that so?” The woman grinned. She still looked just as puzzled as before. “Malli, this is not a subject for you to discuss. Why don’t I talk to your mother…?”

“Oh, it’s not for me!” quickly she corrected, waving her hands in front of her chest.

Even more confused now, Medhaavi pursed her lips. She wanted to know to whom, then. Malli took a breath and said the name:

“Komaram Bheem.”

Out of everything she was ready to face at the hands of Medhaavi, being chased away by an angry matchmaker flinging a broom at her was not something Malli had anticipated.

.

Fine.

If even their matchmaker thought Bheem was too much of a tough match to sell, Malli would do it herself.

How hard could it be to find annayya a wife, anyway?

She sat under a tree and opened the notebook Ram gave her on her last birthday over her knees.

She flipped through the pages of lyrics and harmonies she had scribed down until finding a white sheet – she would have to ask Ram to make her another one soon. There, she wrote the names of all single women she could think of, and then crossed out the ones who were too mean, because Bheem needed someone kind. Quickly, Malli had to face her first frustration on the task. She didn’t know many unmarried women Bheem’s age living in the village. Granted, she wasn’t sure what Bheem’s age even was, but she figured that any of her friends were too young, and her mother’s friends too old.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t mind too old. It’s not like Bheema was in a place to be choosing much. She started from there, thinking they’d be more open to the idea of finding a husband.

Then came the second frustration. Mostly, the older women just laughed at her.

One of them even called out her brother to listen to Malli’s pitch, which she had initially thought was a good sign that her intentions were being taken seriously. Malli was completely mistaken. The woman simply wanted her brother to laugh as well.

At least they gave her some mangoes to bring home.

“Where did you get these?” Loki asked Malli when she dropped the bag on the table.

“Bharat gave them to me.”

“How nice of him. I can make us some mango kheer.” Her mother poked her nose and smiled. “What do you think? Want to help me?”

Malli smiled back at her, the frustrations of the day suddenly forgotten.

.

The next day, she was back on her mission.

The current of many frustrations in Malli’s quest was that she wasn’t making much progress even when he shifted her focus to the younger ones. At least, they didn’t laugh at her, but they also weren’t taking her efforts in earnest. Sometimes they even smiled, more intrigued than truly interested, as Malli made her case once again.

She told them about how Bheema was strong and tall, and a very good hunter. He was also caring and funny. He gave really good hugs, which surely was a good quality in a husband. If they didn’t like cooking themselves, Bheema could cook – and he was actually good at it! He may not come from a good family, and he did not have much in terms of material goods, and it may be that sometimes he was too sweaty and stinky, and his clothes were always bloody, which was difficult to clean, but they did catch that soap thief so that wouldn’t be a problem in the future, and anyway, he was the best they had in the matter of providing and protecting.

One of her friends her age told Malli she should give up. No one would want to marry a man who was going to make them a widow sooner than later.

Malli punched her in the face, just the way Ram anna taught her how.

.

During the weekend, a few people prepared an excursion to the village that had recently been attacked. Ram was leading the group, who would deliver some provisions that Ram’s Babai had sent, and intended to check if there was anything else they could do to help. Some of Ram’s trainees would be posted there as guards.

The trip wasn’t meant to take more than a day. She asked if she could go along.

Ram turned away from Vidudala and put a hand on top of her head, the way he did when he was going to deny her something. It made Malli feel like a child. She hated it.

“It’s not a place for a child,” he said. She was not a child. “Is there something you want from there? I can bring it for you.”

A wife for his best friend would be good, since the women there were being so difficult, but she didn’t trust Ram’s input on that particular matter. She had seen Sita. Sita was clever, generous, caring, and she looked like a princess. Yet Ram was here, alone, instead of being with her. For an intelligent man, he could be incredibly stupid sometimes.

Malli watched them go from the top of the watch post alongside Lacchu, pouting.

“Can I have your gun?” she asked, bored.

Lacchu looked at her, and then at something in the distance. He patted his knee.

“Here.” He held most of the rifle’s weight on his own but let her feel some of it in her shoulder. The solid mass kept her focused. Made it easier to aim. Lacchu slightly moved her forehead to guide her eyes to the correct position. He did not let her touch the trigger, though. “You have to compensate for the wind,” he instructed.

She nodded.

“Do you like being married, anna?”

She felt Lacchu looking at her from behind her back.

“Can’t complain. It’s a good thing, not to be alone. Why do you ask?”

“Do you think Bheem anna would be happier if he wasn’t alone, too?”

She couldn’t see him, too focused on locking the inner circle of the target in the distance in the correct position, but she heard him swallow. Lacchu moved his head close to hers to check what she was aiming at.

 “Perfect,” he said. “If you pulled the trigger now, you would get it right in the bull's eye.” As if telling her a secret, he whispered in her ear: “You should talk to Ram.”

She didn’t pull the trigger. She knew better than to ask. Those bullets were not meant for trees.

.

It was already nighttime when Ram and his group came back. Bheem was expected to come home from his own trip the following morning, so if Malli was going to speak to the other about his friend, it had to be right away.

She found Ram in the back of the hut they shared, sitting in front of a gigantic pile of vegetables. His nose was buried in a book, and he had that look on his face when something wasn’t going the way he planned. Frustration, anger, intense concentration. If Malli didn’t know better, she would say he was trying to force the book to give him the correct words by sheer intimidation.

“What are you making?” she asked.

He looked up from the book, and then to the open door behind her.

“Malli, you really should knock before barging in,” he scolded, then sighed, defeated. “They’re always giving us all sorts of food as gifts when we help, so I thought I could use these to maybe surprise Bheem by making some biryani, but… The recipe book made it look easy.” He dropped the book on the table, staring at it as if he had been betrayed by the one he trusted the most. A book. “It is certainly not.”

“You don’t know how to make biryani?” she inquired, shocked.

Hopeful, he straightened his shoulders. “Do you? Can you teach me?”

She couldn’t believe it. Ram could shoot arrows from a moving horse. She had seen him fight dozens of soldiers with nothing but his will. He was the only other person in their village besides Bheem who could still carry her on his shoulder even though she was almost fourteen. Still, sometimes, and mostly when it was about Bheem, he could be so clueless.

Malli sat down in front of him and started sorting the ingredients he had. Ram was adamant that he wanted to be taught, not have Malli make the dish for him, so she gave him instructions and watched his intense stare trying to intimidate the onion slices to be the right size.

People usually said Ram was handsome. He was almost as strong as Bheem, a little bit taller, but that was the only way in which they were similar. They were so different from one another. Ram’s hair was straight like hers and grew down whereas annayya’s was curly and grew like a mushroom. Ram’s jaw was pointy, and annayya’s round. His nose was more angular too. If this was handsome, Malli started to wander back to her first question.

“Do you think Bheem anna is ugly?”

Ram, who had been putting a few grapes in his mouth in between chopping vegetables, choked. Malli stood on her feet, startled by the sudden cough, but he was faster in hitting his chest in the right place to make the fruit fly out of his throat.

When he had calmed down, he asked her, eyes still red with tears.

“If he is- He is- Malli, what?!”

“Nothing!” she said, afraid of what would happen if they continued that conversation while Ram was holding a knife so close to his fingers. If Bheem came back to Ram missing a piece, her annayya may love her, but he may still kill her. “Forget it! Let me get some pans so we can start!”

She took advantage of the fact that she was already standing to run inside before he could ask any more questions.

.

Every time he came back, Bheem would hug everyone else around him before he hugged Ram. It made Malli want to roll her eyes. It was so obvious that Ram anna was the one that he wanted to hug the most.

His eyes sought Ram’s in the crowd, and when they finally found him, they never left. Still, he feigned nonchalance. She didn’t know why they played that game, but they did. Every. Single. Time. And then, when they finally made their way to one another and shared a hug, they held on tight longer than they had with anyone else.

Sometimes, when they parted, Bheem kissed Ram’s cheek, and Ram told him:

“You were missed.”

Which Malli always thought was a funny way of saying I missed you.

.

She was sitting on the ground with her back against a fallen tree trunk, reassessing the notebook full of crossed names open on her knees, when she heard a grunt and a thud of someone flopping on the floor on her right. Almost at the same time, someone else took the place on her left, favoring sitting on the tree trunk instead of the floor.

Malli barely had time to shut the notebook before seeing herself suddenly trapped between both Bheem and Ram.

“I have a question for you.” Bheem was smiling. She sought the other one for any sort of clarification, but Ram was staring at anything else other than her. Bheem waited for Malli to look back at him, and then he genuinely curiously asked: “Why did I just learn that you have been offering my hand in matrimony to the entire village, little sister?”

She stammered, searching for the right words, until this was what came to her:

“I don’t want you to be alone because you’re too ugly!”

A hissing sound escaping between gripped teeth. A hand trying to cover it up and failing. Suddenly, Ram was laughing harder than she had ever heard him laugh before.

“What?!” Bheem looked up at the man for a second but chose to focus on Malli instead. “Who said I was ugly?!”

“He did!” She pointed accusingly at Ram.

That only made him laugh harder.

“I did not!” he exclaimed, outraged, then turned towards the confused look on Bheem’s face as he tried to keep himself together. “I did no such thing! She is remembering it wrong. Why don’t we address the other issue here?” He finally managed to make himself stop laughing. Ram took a deep breath, steadying himself, and then asked, as delicately as he knew how. “Why do you think Bheema is alone, Malli?”

Sheepishly, she twisted the edges of the notebook between her hands.

She didn’t know how to explain this to them.

Malli could feel both men sharing a pointed look over her head.

Bheem touched her shoulder kindly.

“I have all of you with me,” he said. “Anywhere I go. I’m never alone.”

“It’s different, isn’t it? You take care of so many people, annayya. Don’t you want someone to take care of you, too? Who will be coming for you when you are the one who needs saving?” She paused, making herself look at him. “Isn't it too heavy to carry such a burden all by yourself?”

“It’s not a burden,” the hand on her shoulder grew heavier as he squeezed her. “It’s my life’s purpose, and I’d not trade it for any other life. Nothing brings me more joy. Besides…” He looked at something above her head. “Who says I don’t already have such a person in my life?”

Ram was watching them quietly, an easy smile on his face. Bheem’s hand left her shoulder and she noticed, by the movement of Ram’s arm, that they were searching for one another.

She realized that neither of them was as alone as she may have thought.

“What is this?”

Standing at the door, Bheem gapped with childlike wonder.

“Did you make this?!”

Modestly, Ram shrugged and swayed his head. He closed the door behind them while Bheem hurried to the bed that now occupied a great percentage of their hut. Ram had to reorganize a few things to make it fit properly, but he thought it was worth it. If the look on Bheem’s face was any indicator, he felt the same way.

Bheem tested the padding with his hands and gave it a firm push.

“You’re so good at everything you do,” he praised, smiling, then he was grimacing guiltily. “You should’ve waited for me,” he whined. “I could have helped.”

“Then it wouldn’t have been a surprise, would it? Besides, you can still help.”

He lightened up instantly, always eager to assist.

“What can I do?” he promptly asked.

“Let’s see…” Ram walked closer to him, putting an arm around his shoulders while pretending to think. Bheem watched him closely, waiting expectantly for instructions. Snapping his fingers, he said: “I haven’t tested its resistance yet!” Then he quickly bent down and hugged his legs, unceremoniously swiping Bheem off the floor and flinging him over his shoulder. Bheem yelped, surprised, but posed no resistance.

He laughed as he was thrown on top of the bed, and Ram climbed on top of him.

They shared a few quick kisses. Ram snuggled on the side of Bheem’s face, smelling him. Trees and skin oil and sweat and running water, somehow. There was also something else. Powder, steel, wildfire. Ram’s hair pomade. Their scents combined to form the smell of home.

Ram rolled out of him, resting his head on Bheem’s stretched arm. The man spread his limbs wide like a starfish, very pleased with how no part of him was falling to the floor anymore.

“What do you think? Approved?”

He enthusiastically nodded. Ram caught his hand and kissed his knuckles. He looked down at the worn-out leather piece on his wrist, the thread around it, and their fingers intertwined.

Bheem lightly touched the bruise on his forehead.

"What happened?" he asked, worried.

"Same group as last month, trying the east paths now. Not the British." Ram huffed, annoyed. "How can we keep fighting for liberation when we are too busy fighting each other?"

"We had issues before they came," he said. "And we will still have issues after they're gone. That's what the party is for."

"I'm well aware." He pressed himself closer to his side, seeking his warmth. "I'll leave the politics for you if you don't mind. Can't really stomach the thought of being inside such mechanism again. The fake pleasantries, the power play. It makes me sick. Call me when you need something going up in flames, and I will be there."

Bheem laughed.

"You'll always be the first one I'd call to explode a building, bangaram."

He put his nose to Ram's forehead and kissed the bruise there.

“It’s a bit too big for the hut, isn’t it?” He commented absentmindedly, swinging his legs over the bed, unaware of how complete he made Ram feel at that moment.

“If I had made it smaller, then it’d still be too cramped to sleep on, defeating the purpose of making a new bed at all.”

“When we first moved here, they offered me a piece of land by the river. The one we take water from.”

Ram raised his eyebrows, turning up to look at him.

“I didn’t consider building a house in it then since I didn't want to be too far away from the people if they needed me, and the hut served all my needs, but…” He kept staring at the ceiling. “I wasn’t accounting for having company. And the village grew enough that it wouldn’t be too far, these days, if you want.”

Ram turned to the ceiling too, considering it.

“It doesn’t have to be a priority right now,” Bheem clarified. “I know we both have been busy. But it could be something to do together when we’re home.”

“We do have some house-building experience,” Ram pondered aloud, already drawing floor plans in his head.

It’d be nice to have a bigger house to store his things, so he didn’t have to part with his books every other month for lack of space. They could have a proper bedroom apart from the kitchen, so the sheets didn’t smell terrible every time Bheem gutted a fish inside. But he was getting too far ahead of himself; he didn’t even know how big of a terrain they were talking about.

They lay like that for a while, Ram thinking of the future, and Bheem thinking of Ram. He shifted to the side so his face got in the way of the path of the ceiling Ram was staring at.

Bheem bit his lip into a smile. Ram knew that look.

“Say, nā prēma, I think I heard a cracking. Maybe we should test the resistance of this bed more thoroughly. For safety.”

“For safety. Of course. How reckless of me,” Ram chuckled. “Don’t you get any ideas yet, Bheema. I have something else for you.”

“Oh?” He widened his eyes, interested.

“I made biryani.”

Somehow, the eyes got wider, and then softer. Suddenly, Bheem was looking at him in that way that always made Ram think that was the thing that was going to end up killing him.

He would’ve died a happy man.

“Every day I keep finding new ways to fall in love with you.”

“Funny how the flourished words only came out after I mentioned food.”

Bheem pulled an exaggeratedly offended face.

“It was a long trip! Can’t I both love you and biryani?”

Ram got up and offered a hand.

“Come on up, then. Let’s eat, and then…”

Bheem extended his arm, taking Ram’s hand in his own.

“…Then you can show me that land.”

The hammock was wrapped tight around her like her mother’s paneer bhapa cooked in banana leaves pockets. Malli was hiding from the woman herself, who wanted her to go to the plantations with Som Bai that morning. The very morning annayya was giving away the gifts he brought from his last trip. Loki didn’t want to hear it – she said Malli was too old for that, but Malli didn’t think a person could ever grow too old for gifts.

Peeking through the folds, she was reluctant to admit that her mother may be right. She was way too old for those gifts. There were no kids her age in there, only the smaller ones jumping excitedly around Bheem as the man took dolls, lattus, caduranga boards, and other baby toys from a bag. A particularly loud kid Malli didn’t like very much kept trying to climb him like a tree, so Bheem bent down and pulled him up, attaching him to his hip while he kept passing the toys along.

If she kept hiding in there, at least she wouldn’t have to go to the plantations.

At some point, she saw Ram anna walking close by, scooping coconut meat with a bark chip into his mouth. He sat under a tree not too far away and kept eating while watching Bheem now sharing a few kite-making materials.

Malli was starting to doze off in her little cocoon, and Ram was done eating for a very long time when Bheem finished his kite-making lessons and came to him. They traded hi-hellos, and uninteresting chit-chats Malli lacked context to understand. Ram had saved him half of the coconut. Bheem sat down to eat beside him.

They were silent after that. Malli peeked out from the folds of the hammock to check if they had left and she was clear to leave too, but they were still sitting there, just… Doing nothing. Ram watched Bheem while he ate, smiling. At some point, Bheem noticed it.

“…What?” Concerned, he brushed his beard with his hand. “Do I have coconut on my face?”

“You are adorable,” Ram said wistfully. “I just want to pinch your cheeks.”

Bheem was visibly taken aback by the unexpected remark.

“Thank you? That’d be a first.”

“No one has ever pinched your cheeks before?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“I don’t believe you. They are very pinchable cheeks.”

“Go ahead, then.”

He stretched his neck, offering. Ram considered it for a moment, then he laughed a way Malli never heard him laugh before, something closer to a giggle, and lifted his hand. He squeezed Bheem’s cheek once, then leaned forward as if he was going to kiss the same spot next, but Bheem turned his head in the last second and Ram’s mouth landed on his own.

Ram opened his eyes wide, looking around. He swatted at Bheem’s arm.

“Careful.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You are not. You are smiling.”

“I’m not. And that I am. But so are you.” 

Ram laughed that weird giggle again, hiding between his shoulders like she had seen some girls do, at times, when they talked to boys they liked.

“Do you know no shame?” he teased affectionately. “Peddanna was looking for you.”

“Right. Yes. I should probably go. See you by the river later?”

“Of course, bangaaru.”

Bheem got up, swatted the dirt from his butt, and went. Ram stayed seated where he was, still watching him until Bheem disappeared into the streets. Afterward, Ram sat back and just watched the trees, doing nothing at all and expressing no rush to go anywhere.

Ram was kind. One wouldn’t know that at first, she didn’t believe it herself for a long time, but he was one of the kindest people Malli has ever met. It may be that he couldn’t cook and hated laundry day, but he did maintain the floor of their hut so clean Malli could see her reflection in it, and everything on their shelves was always very organized. He was a decent hunter, and a really good gift giver, and his hugs may be a little stiff, but he tried his best. Ram was always trying his very best. He didn’t think of himself as a protector, but Malli thought he was misguided. He had been doing a good job at protecting them so far. If someone could take care of the Gond Protector, it was surely the Hero of the Jungle.

Malli sat up from her cocoon, reaching a final decision. A few feet over, Ram jumped, alarmed, and turned to her.

“Malli! What did your mother tell you about hiding in hammocks?!”

She was not disturbed. Lifting her chin, she announced: 

“I will bless this union.”

Ram's eyebrows met in the middle, his stern stare hidding a deep confusion.

She was already out of the hammock and walking away from him.

In a way, she thought, if you squirm, she did get Bheem a husband, so her matchmaking abilities weren’t as lacking as she was led to believe. Malli wouldn’t go so far as to say she was glad it all happened as it did because Bheem met Ram that way, but she was glad something good could thrive from all the pain they had endured. She suspected her annayya and her anna were always going to find a way to each other, either way. She has seen enough to know that nothing could keep them apart for too long.

.

V. Sita

Her husband had always been easy to spot in a crowd. That couldn’t be good news for a wanted man who devoted his life to the armed revolution, but Sita never met any other freedom fighter quite like Jeeva anywhere else. He was always wearing too many bright colors.

Sita caught his arm in the train station, startling him with the sudden touch. Once he recognized her, alarm turned into surprise.

“And what are you doing here?”

“I’m going with you,” she informed him, resolved. It wasn’t a request.

Surprise turned into worry in his complexion.

Jeeva looked out to the rails in the distance, seeing a trail of smoke approaching through the mountains.

“The kids?”

“With your sister.”

“And are you sure that’s what you want?”

“I’m sure.”

“Alright.” He sighed, then took her hand and kissed the back of it. “Let’s get you a ticket.”

Sita reached inside her sari and showed him the piece of paper.

“I already did.”

.

The Aliabad Forest was as beautiful as she remembered. The Gond village, though, was utterly changed. The last time Sita had been there, they were a few hiding among the trees. That morning, they looked as numerous as the leaves that sheltered them. Every Gond wanted to be close to the Gond Protector, these days. Especially in time for one of his famous birthday parties.

Bheem’s birthdays were as much a political affair as a celebration of his life. She had never asked Jeeva not to go, but he stood aside from the event year after year anyway. However, he was now soon to be appointed leader of their small party, and it wasn’t in good spirits to have a strained relationship with their strongest allies.

She suspected that, even if her husband’s thoughts on Ram were reserved for a detached admiration for his accomplishments and gratitude for his life, Jeeva genuinely liked Bheem. Sita could understand, since everybody who spent more than five minutes with the man genuinely liked Bheem. That was made evident by the fact that they had been there for a couple of hours and had not yet seen him, given the size of the crowd surrounding him with gifts and blessings.

One of Jeeva’s Gond friends came to greet them and show them their accommodations. She cast a glance around as he took their bags, walking through the streets arm in arm with her husband, and then she saw him.

In the distance, standing among the trees, Ram was staring right back at her.

.

“You seem different,” she said at the edge of the river that afternoon.

Ram walked beside her with both his hands clasped behind his back.

“So I’ve been told. Present. That was the word Babai used.”

She stopped to evaluate him, the firm officer stance he was never quite able to shake off, and the distant coldness of his features hiding such a wounded heart.

“No,” said Sita. “It’s definitely the hair.”

Ram smiled, reserved coldness melting into a familiar warmth. She saw herself easily smiling back.

They sat together on the same rock they sat on this same date six years ago. Sita watched the trees, and Ram watched the water.

The river was changed too. They had installed pumps for water, and boats were attached to wooden decks for fishing. Close by, she could spot bits and pieces of four steady walls where a small house was being constructed. 

“When are you due?”

He was looking at her belly. She touched it herself.

“Not until next year. March, probably. It’s still soon.”

“Second?”

“Third.”

He nodded.

“Do you like it, being a mother?”

“Really?" She snickered. "What kind of ridiculous question is that?”

“I don’t know! You’re making me nervous.”

The Ram she parted with would never have admitted to it unprompted. It made her chuckle, and he shifted anxiously.

“I’ve thought about you,” he confessed. “Often. I’ve written you letters, at times, but I never found the courage to send them. I can’t for the life of me remember what I put in them now, Sita. I don’t know what to tell you apart from how glad I am that you are here.”

She put a hand on his forearm, and he stilled.

“Tell me, was it all you hoped for? Are you happy here?”

“How is it that people put it? A happy life is just a collection of happy memories?” He covered her hand with one of his own. “I do have more of those. That isn’t to say there haven’t been difficult days, but…” He smiled at the water. “There’s been far more happy ones, which is beyond what I ever hoped for. So yes. I think so.”

“I’m glad.” And she was.

He turned to her, leaning sideways to nudge her shoulder. “And you?”

She thought about it in the terms Ram had put it. Memories of her family around the dining table, the birth of her children, the laughter that traveled her house, always so full. A partner who was there for her, loved her, and talked to her not only about war and sorrow, but painted a colorful future for them both. Jeeva let her in, not particularly prone to protect her by pushing her away. He wouldn’t be able to do it, even if was inclined to secrecy. In many forms, his openness and compassion reminded her of Bheem. What an odd fortune.

“Me too.”

Ram seemed equally as glad.

“Do you love him?”

“I haven’t always,” she admitted. It may be true that there were things they didn’t talk about before, but she and Ram never lied to one another. “But I’ve learned to.”

“I’m sorry. It must’ve been difficult.”

“It was. But again, you will never get to marry the man you love, either.”

She purposely attempted to be cruel, just to see how it felt. Ram didn’t seem to hold any surprise by the sharpness in her words. He did look wretched at that truth thrown at his feet, but she knew that Ram thought of himself as deserving of all cruelty and punishment. Sita decided she didn’t care about hurting him. It did nothing but hurt her, too.

All she has ever wanted was for them to find a home again, and they had, just not with one another. She had made her peace with it. Now, she just wanted that half of her that lived in Ram back.

“I love you too much to be angry at you forever,” she said.

He lowered his head between his shoulders. Sita drew soothing circles over his back while he sniffed and rubbed his eyes. She noticed the thread and the pendant around his neck, half a promise made a long time ago.

“He is rubbing off on you, isn’t he?” Sita teased. “When did you start crying so easily?”

His shoulders shook again, this time with laughter. Ram lifted his reddish eyes.

“I missed you,” he earnestly told her. “So much.”

“I missed you too...” Sita tried it out, just to see how it felt: “…anna.”

She decided it felt fitting.

.

When they came back, there was music.

Her eyes kept finding Ram again in the crowd, and his kept finding her own. Sita came to stand by her husband, and Ram went to look for his own.

Eventually, she saw him approaching the corner where Bheem was chatting along with a small group of comrades. Other people saw Ram before Bheem did. Shaking his shoulders and kicking his feet to the rhythm, Ram made his way around the man, and Bheem’s entire body lighted up with the power of his grin at the sight of him. Laughing, Bheem shook his shoulders too in the same beat. Ram pulled his hand.

“I’m stealing this one now,” he said.

“Just a moment, Rama, I’m just…”

“We can talk politics later. Dance with me.”

Bheem waved an apology to the men as Ram dragged him away, but he didn’t look sorry in the slightest. They danced hand in hand in the middle of all those people, singing the words together with their faces pulled too close to be mistaken by anything other than what they were to one another. No one seemed to mind.

Someone caught her arm, startling her with the sudden touch. Once she recognized him, alarm turned into a fond smile.

“Do you want to dance?” Jeeva asked expectantly.

They danced until their feet hurt and their belly erupted with laughter.

.

Both Bheem and Ram cut the cake together, hands intermingled over the knife’s handle.

“Ram,” Bheem called, lifting a hand while Ram bent forward to take the cake in his mouth. Ram took a small piece between his fingers and gently fed Bheem in return. “Lacchu! Where is Lacchu?”

“I don’t want to go after him,” the man whined as his wife pushed him forward. All around them, people laughed.

“You’re going anyway. Open up!”

“Anna!” He kept protesting, but there was no real fire in it. Lacchu took the cake into his mouth and offered Bheem a piece in return.

The birthday man was already moving down the line as if this was his life mission now.

“Jangu! Peddanna anna. Come here!” He fed his brothers, and they fed in return. “Babai, you too. Here.”

Babai held Bheem’s wrist before taking the cake from his hand. When it was his turn to do the same to Bheem, he smeared the pastry on his face. People laughed more, and so did Bheem, thrilled.

He moved on. Somewhere along the way, his eyes found Sita. They stayed in her a second too long, pondering, uncertain, not wanting to pose pressure and neither to presume, and yet full of hope. She took a step forward. His whole face lighted up with a grin as he swayed his head and made his way to her.

“Sita,” he called, gently, offering her a bite. Sita accepted it. She let him hand-feed her and took a piece of his birthday cake to hand-feed him back. As he chewed, she took a tissue and cleaned his dirty beard and cheeks. She pulled his now clean but still sticky face down to kiss his forehead.

“Happy birthday, Bheema.”

He squeezed her hands, bringing the back of them to the spot her lips touched.

“It is now, sister.”

Then Malli loudly complained that she wanted some cake too, so Bheem barked a laugh and kept moving down the line to feed others. 

Bheem squirmed, pushing his head down against the bed and his hips up further inside of him. A beautiful rough sound came out of his throat. Ram let him ride it a little longer, rocking back and forth on his lap. Through hooded eyes, Bheem looked up in awe and reached with his hands, touching his body. He traced the shape of his abs with his fingers and avidly palmed his chest. Ram may or may not have done some pushups and pullups before going to bed that night. Call it his birthday gift. He smiled, letting Bheem slide off him and feeling his cum running down his thighs. 

“You are perfect,” Bheem told him, almost reverent. “I can hardly believe you are real, that I somehow found you, and that you're mine.”

Ram bent down to kiss his mouth.

“Believe it. You did.”

He kissed him once more.

“And we will find each other again.”

Another kiss.

“And again.”

He took Bheem’s cheeks between his palms.

“I'm yours as much as you're mine. Bound me to you tonight.”

Until then, the spark in Bheem’s eyes had been playful, but suddenly they grew surprised, serious, touched, full of love and wonder.

“What changed?”

Ram made a vague gesture with his hands in the dark.

That was enough.

Bheem pulled him away just enough so he could sit up. He made another thread with pieces of their own. It may not mean much, in official terms, but it meant the world to Ram.

“For a hundred lives,” he said, tying the knots. “And a thousand more.”

They’d make love again that night. Ram had a real birthday gift for Bheem, a painting he commissioned Jenny and that he had been picturing hanging on the walls of the new home they were building together. But he would let that for tomorrow. There was plenty of time.

Sita found it inside an envelope, tucked away in a box at the bottom of her wardrobe. It’s where she kept old memories that, at times, could be too difficult to remember, but were still too precious to forget. Her grandmother’s favorite sari. Her father’s comb for his glorious mustache. The shell of a bullet she picked up from the ground that morning.

She opened the envelope and gave it a shake, letting the pendant slide to her palm.

“Amma, where are you?”

She put the box back in its place and quickly stood up, clasping the necklace around her neck as she followed the call of her children.

“I’m over here, koḍuku.”

Jeeva was already feeding them. She sat by his side.

“Can I have your opinion on something later?” he asked. “It’s… you-know-what related.”

He never wanted to discuss the war in front of the kids. Sita found it endearing; neither of them had the luxury of a childhood without the marks of violence, but they wanted to provide that for their children if they could. She kissed his cheek.

“Of course. After they are asleep.”

If he noticed the pendant around her neck, Jeeva never said anything. Sita loved him dearly for that and much more.

.

BHEEM

Bheem slept through the night. The scars healed and faded. He wrote songs of endurance, but of joy too. He was cared for and protected. He was happy and he was home. Sometimes he still felt too much and too deep, but Ram told him that was his gift as much as his strength, and he believed his husband; although sometimes - and he would never tell this to anyone - it did feel like a burden. On some days, he tamed tigers. On others, he turned crowds feral. And there were times in which his fight was against his little sister for always stealing his motorbike, but those Bheem usually lost. You can't win every battle.

He never asked for much, yet he got everything he wanted, and he never once felt alone.