The Ghost Catcher by Martha Hamilton and Mitch Weiss. Atlanta, GA: August House, 2008.
The Buri and the Marrow by Henriette Barkow. London, UK: Mantra Lingua, 2000.
Tuntuni, the Tailor Bird by Betsy Bang. New York, NY: Greenwillow Books, 1978.
Kiranmala would never have been successful on her quest without the help of her friends and family, and the same goes for the publication of this book. First and foremost, I must heartily thank my agent, Brent Taylor, who championed this story with clear-eyed enthusiasm, stalwart belief, and mad skill. And to his colleague Uwe Stender—vielen vielen Dank für Alles! I’d like to humbly thank Abigail McAden and Patrice Caldwell—the best editorial demon slayers around, who not only helped me write better and dream bigger but also made every moment of this process a delight.
Thank you to Vivienne To and the entire art department at Scholastic, particularly the visionary Elizabeth Parisi, for this beautiful cover and art, and Abby Dening for her clever interior design. To Rachel Gluckstern, my production editor; Rebekah Wallin, my copyeditor; Talia Seidenfeld, my eleventh-hour proofreader; and the rest of Team Kiranmala including intergalactic marketing and publicity heroes Rachel Feld, Lizette Serrano, Tracy van Straaten, and Jennifer Abbots—thank you again and again for helping me share these beloved stories from Bengal with a global audience of readers.
Thank you to the best critique group around—Sheela Chari, Veera Hiranandani, and Heather Tomlinson—who believed in my stories even when I forgot how and continue to help me grow as a writer and reader. Eternal love and gratitude to my writing sister, Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich, who plies me with wisdom, inspiration, and gluten-free treats, and to my oldest sister-friend, Kari Scott, who shared my love of stories in childhood and does still. (I wouldn’t be writing stories now if not for all those summer afternoons reading them, watching them, and acting them out with you.) I’m also indebted to my sis and dance partner Mallika Chopra and her brother Gautam for their invaluable support and advice on this project and so many others.
Endless gratitude to the entire We Need Diverse Books, Kidlit Writers of Color, and Desi Writers families. I am proud to be a part of such a visionary group of artists who are writing a more just future into reality every day. Thank you to my local creative moms posse, Kerri, Viv, Liv, Laura, Meg, Jill, and the real Jovi—who is nothing like the mean girl named after her—for reminding me all the time that parenting and art go hand in hand. Lots of love too to my Bengali community from childhood and now for helping me celebrate the rich, funny, wacky, and powerful reality of being a Bengali immigrant daughter in New Jersey.
Thank you to my narrative medicine/health humanities colleagues at Columbia and around the country, who taught me that stories are the best medicine. Lots of gratitude as well to my former pediatric patients and my current undergraduate and graduate students, who teach me, inspire me, and fill me with hope for the future of this planet.
To my loving parents, Sujan and Shamita, and my entire extended family of storytellers, I am so grateful to have received these stories at your feet. To my husband, Boris, and my beloved partners in crime, Kirin and Sunaya—thank you for cheering me on every step of the way. You are the joy, you are the magic, you are the feeling of flying through the sky. I’d slay all the demons for you, my darlings, in this universe and all the rest.
SAYANTANI DASGUPTA grew up hearing stories about brave princesses, bloodthirsty rakkhosh, and flying pakkhiraj horses. She is a pediatrician by training but now teaches at Columbia University. When she’s not writing or reading, Sayantani spends time watching cooking shows with her trilingual children and protecting her black Labrador retriever, Khushi, from the many things that scare him, including plastic bags. She is a team member of We Need Diverse Books and can be found online at www.sayantanidasgupta.com and on Twitter at @sayantani16.
The first time the Demon Queen appeared in my bedroom, I tried to decapitate her with my solar system nightlight.
I was fast asleep, but got woken up by the freaky sound of buzzing. Then I smelled that rancid, belch-y, acid-y odor I’d come to associate with the rakkhoshi during my adventures in the Kingdom Beyond Seven Oceans and Thirteen Rivers. As soon as I opened my eyes, I saw her tell-tale outline: pointy crown on her giant head, sharp horns peeking through her dark hair, and evil talons reaching from her long arms.
I reached for my magic bow and quiver under my bed, but when my hand came up empty, I remembered I’d left them in my locker at school. So instead, I laced my fingers through the plastic rings of Saturn, yanked my old nightlight from the socket, and spun the entire solar system like a flying discus right at the Rakkhoshi Rani’s head.
Unfortunately, the sun and orbiting planets never managed to hit her. To my shock, the plastic solar system just sailed through her see-through, sari-clad body, crashing on the front of my Princess Pretty Pants dresser, part of the disgustingly princess-themed bedroom set my parents had bought me when I was, like, six.
“Honestly, Moon-girl! Is that any way to greet the mother of an old friend?” The rakkhoshi’s fangs glinted in the moonlight that streamed through my curtain-less windows. Then she stretched her claw-like hand toward the fallen nightlight, making the plastic explode with a fiery bang.
“Stop that!” I ran out of bed, throwing my bedside glass of water on the place my bubble-gum pink carpet was burning. It did basically nothing to squelch the flames, though. “You’re going to burn the whole house down!” The smell of melting plastic gagged me as Mercury and Venus started ooblecking right before my eyes.
“Spoil sport!” The Demon Queen drawled, but she did lean over and breathe an icy gust of wind onto the burning planets—a little mini hailstorm—leaving a charred and smelly solar system on my bedroom floor.
“You’re not real.” I blinked my eyes, trying to wake myself up. “I’m imagining this.”
The demoness belched. Loudly. “You don’t have enough imagination to conjure the likes of me!”
Hoping to catch her off-guard, just in case I was wrong about the whole being-a-nightmare thing, I launched myself at the rakkhoshi with a ferocious yowl. But she just yawned, and let me go flying right through her vaporous form.
I slammed into my dresser, hitting my head hard on a tiara-shaped drawer knob. “I knew you weren’t real!”
“Oh, fie on your underdeveloped cranium, you pea-brained tree-goat!” The queen picked her teeth with a long nail. “Listen up, I have something important to tell you. A matter of life and death. About…”
“What?” I prompted from my position sprawled out on the floor.