Tandavi,

You have watched the egg Kali gave you with religious zeal, great black eyes in a fiery face staring intently as it rocks through the morning, back and forth and back and forth upon a bed of mossy stone. You do not know what rests within the fragile shell, do you, child? But I do, for I have seen it, and I hope you will come to love it as I love Kali, to feel a bond that is deep enough to supplement the fragile and shallow ties of blood we share.

I stand beside you through the day, watching you watching it and wondering what runs through your mind, what you are thinking behind that insolent stare that does not apologize or look away. I see myself reflected in your eyes, on the nights when the wind is quiet and you gaze into the stars, unafraid of the expanses that stretch above, longing only to know the secrets they hold. Since your birth I have not seen you to be afraid of anything, and now, as you wait for the responsibility of a new life to fall into your waiting soul, you are unafraid again. You do not know to fear yet, and I hope you never shall.

-Rishima

Mother does not know that I know what she feels. Since I was born I could look inside of people and see what they are, and I think they are beautiful. The ability tastes of clover mixed with a touch of what I will come to recognize as cinnamon, and tingles darkly in black and silver sparkles beneath my skin. I have learned it to look at myself, and it is interesting to see the things beneath this coat of baby hair that covers my body, the muscle and blood and bones that make a being. They differ so subtly between Mother and I, but mostly we are the same.

Mother does not like this, but I do. I would like to be the same as Mother one day.

The creature in the egg is not the same, but I cannot imagine what he looks like in the real world. So far I have seen a number of different animals, like horse and dragons and gryphons and rabbits and birds, but I have not seen one that looks on the inside the same way he does. I am small, but he is smaller, and I know that when he hatches he will be mine to care for, but he will also care for me. Kali has told me so. She told me that he will be to me what Kali is to mother, and she is very happy about it.

I am not sure if I like that or not. All day as the egg sat and rocked I sat and thought about it, and even now that spiderweb cracks are forming and he is about to emerge I am still not sure. Kali brought me a dead rabbit this morning; she told me I must give it to the egg when it hatches, for it will be hungry. Now it is just past midday and the meat has begun to stink. Mother is standing at the edge of the glade, watchful and distant as always, and I wish I could join her, but this is my responsibility. It is my first responsibility, and I must make her proud, and not be afraid. So I lay in the grass and watch it, aware of the feeling of earth against my body, interested in the contrast of green on orange and the shine of gold. Will he look like me, or like mother, or all different? I do not know.

The first hunk of shell falls away and a small black paw claws at the gap, tiny claws making scratches upon the fragile orb. Then more falls away, and more, and soon there is a lump of black fur curled up upon the ground, with little bits of cream upon its back like dust. I inch towards it, and do not notice Kali and Mother now standing at my back, watching me watching it and wondering what I will do. I stand up, and on spindly legs and tender hooves close the last few feet between myself and the new creature.

He feels wet against my nose, and I pull away seconds after touching him, snorting away the moisture even as he uncurls abruptly, his entire tiny body expanding into a mass of rising fur and snarles, tails splayed behind him - one, two, three, I can count - and truly enormous ears framing his very gold eyes. I stare back with my own black eyes, and suddenly, inexplicably, I know that I love him.

I can hear Mother speaking behind me now, her dark and deep voice soothing in the bright sun. Tandavi, meet Natraj. "Naa-raj," I repeat quietly, testing it out and deciding I do not like the sound of my own voice, but this is the first time I have used it. I hope it will grow more like Mother's over time. Mother says I need to feed him, but I am not really listening because when I say his name Natraj presses himself to the ground and whines slightly, tails drifting in an arc behind him and a sudden happiness obvious in his soul. He takes a hesitant step closer to me, and then another one, and I meet him partway through and our noses touch- and then suddenly he is leaping onto the pile of meat Kali dragged forward, digging into the carcass with voracious appetite and small white fangs. He eats until he is bloated, which does not take long, then suddenly he is at my feet and yawning, leaning against my foreleg almost weightlessly and sniffing excitedly at my hooves.

I stare at him in silent amazement, and gently lower myself back to the ground, pushing him closer to my side and blinking as he whimpers in protest. It has been an interesting day, and I have made my first friend. He paws against my side and tries to climb onto my back, and I wonder if anyone else will come to visit us, or if today is only for the sun and the sky and my family and me.