另一篇女兒今年的獲獎作品Tiny Goddess（小女神）看了第一遍沒有懂，
Tiny Goddess
Unika Vajracharya was six when she became a goddess. She remembered holding the hand of her mother, with her older sister following close behind, skipping down the dusty pathway to Hakha Bahal, the courtyard where all religious ceremonies were held. In her other arm she clutched a frayed teddy bear, an ear missing from receiving too much love.
She knew that she was about to do something very important, and she knew nothing but excitement on that day. She imagined the people of Nepal bowing down to her, saying her name over and over again while she wore beautiful dresses. She imagined being able to do whatever she wanted to, including not having to go to school.
When she reached Hakha Bahal, Unika was rushed away from her mother and sister. Instead of fear, her eyes sparkled with excitement as her plain shorts and hoodie were traded in for an elaborate red attire, complete with a crown of living flowers. It weighed down her head, but she didn’t complain. An unfamiliar woman painted a red tika on her forehead, with a silver agni chakchuu resembling a third eye.
She flinched a little as a thick eyeliner was applied from the creases of her dark eyes all the way to her forehead, and cried out loud as her hair was roughly put into a topknot. When the process was over, Unika begged to see what she looked like. She was handed a rough handheld mirror, where she peered curiously at her reflection. She gasped in shock. She was unrecognizable—beautiful yet terrifying. For the first time, she felt like a living goddess.
The first day of her ceremony passed as a blur. It was late at night by the time she was finally able to take off her costume. She threw a small tantrum when she realized that she was moved to a new house, in a secluded neighborhood away from her friends. Her mother scolded her for one of the first times in her life, telling her that as the new kumari, she could no longer act so immature.
Unika woke up early the next morning, her bare feet slapping on the hard ground of her new house as she started to run outside. She liked to go out there and watch the sunrise before starting her day, a habit she had gotten into since she was very young.
Before she could, she was grabbed by her father and carried into his arms. He whispered into her ear that as the kumari, she was no longer allowed to step outside, except on festival occasions like yesterday. Unika started to cry again, then remembered her mother’s words and fell silent. For breakfast, she ate hard bread and a strange-tasting soup, instead of the fresh chicken eggs her mother would usually boil.
Three years passed. At nine, Unika was still a beautiful creature. At least, she had been told. Her hair was thick and dark, thanks to the many treatments she received, and she held her head high with the regality of a queen. But she was no longer the bright-eyed child, with a loud, obnoxious voice and muddy hands and feet. How could she be beautiful when she couldn’t even remember the last time she laughed or how to smile? She sat with her legs crossed, and spoke in quiet, low tones. The last time she had felt the sun on her face was months ago, and even then, she had to be carried by her father. She hated the color red, and the intricate dresses she was forced to wear were no longer beautiful to her, but another symbol of her imprisonment. She thought of running away daily, cursing the rituals she had to follow, as an angry fire burned in her heart. Yet she did not voice any of her thoughts out loud, for those were not things a kumari could ever say.
Unika was eleven when she bled for the first time. It was a bit early, but she never welcomed anything more. She was immediately released from her duties, because it was believed that the spirit of the goddess that entered her body when she became a kumari would leave if she lost any blood.
She and her family moved back to their old house in their old neighborhood. Unika opened the creaky door and looked around. There was her old teddy bear, sitting up in her bed with its frayed smile and torn ear. There was the stove her mother used to boil the delicious eggs. Everything appeared to be the same, but Unika had never felt so a place so unfamiliar in her entire life.
She returned to her old school two days later. The classroom had been rearranged, but the teacher was the same, and she recognized many familiar faces. Unika gave a hesitant wave to the girl nearest to her, one of her best friends when she was six. The girl’s eyes widened slightly, and she quickly scooted her chair away.
That day, Unika sat in the back of the small classroom, a good four seats away from everyone else. No one approached her during recess, where she felt the dusty ground on her barefeet for the first time in years, and the teacher never called on her. Unika wondered absently if her classmates still revered her, or if they were afraid of her.
She walked home alone that day, a goddess with her head bowed and hair flying in the wind.
