Shon Mehta

  The Vow:  Sthavira boats are lined with ancestral bones, carrying the weight of a stolen past. Kudhiveer woke up before dawn. The air on Jarodha was sweet, heavy with the scent of tropical blossoms gifted by the god Sarvabhu. It felt pleasant—and he hated it.  He was a  Sthavira .  His hatred had long ago ceased to be chosen and had become    habitual, just like breathing. Following the custom of his elders, Kudhiveer cursed the land before his bare feet touched the ground. The trees around his family dwelling sagged with ripe fruit, purple and swollen, their skins split with juice. He refused to look at them. To eat before a raid was to accept the land’s comfort, and comfort was a bribe. Instead, he chewed a strip of dried bark saved from the previous winter. It was dry and slightly rotten, and tasted bitter. For the Sthaviras, bitter was the only honest flavor. He glanced toward the eastern horizon. The morning mist was thinning, and beyond the wat...