This book is dedicated to my family and especially to my wonderful majee, Chint Kaur Bilan, who held my hand throughout my childhood and still stays close.
Title Page
Dedication
Glossary of Hindi and Punjabi words
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Letter from the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
BARFI—A sweet treat made with condensed milk. A bit like fudge.
BETAY—Dear (term of endearment for a child).
BINDI—A red decorative mark painted on the forehead between the eyebrows, usually by married women.
BUTA—An ancient floral symbol shaped a little like a teardrop.
CHAI—Spiced sugary tea.
CHAPPAL, CHAPPALA—Simple sandals a bit like flip-flops.
CHUNNI—A long scarf worn by women, usually to match an outfit.
DEEVA, DEEVAY—A small clay pot filled with oil and a wick, similar to a tea light.
DHABBA STALL—A roadside stall selling freshly cooked food.
DHAL—Soup made with lentils.
DHOSA, DHOSAY—A rice-batter pancake cooked on a griddle and stuffed with a spiced potato filling.
DHOTI—A cloth worn by men instead of pants. You wrap the cloth around the waist and the final section is passed through the legs and tucked into the waistband.
DIVALI—The festival of lights celebrated all over India and by Hindus around the world, based on the story of Rama and Sita. Candles are lit, fireworks set off, and presents exchanged. The festival is also part of the Sikh religion, where it celebrates the release of Guru Hargobind from prison.
DIVALI MUBARAK—Happy Divali.
JELAYBIE, JELAYBIA—An orange spiral-shaped sweet treat. It’s crunchy on the outside and filled with liquid sugar.
KABADI—A traditional Indian sport, a bit like rugby without the ball.
KHEER—Indian word for rice pudding.
KURTA—A knee-length tunic worn over pants.
LASSI—A drink made with fresh yogurt, water, and ice.
LENGHA—A long, pretty skirt usually worn for special occasions.
MAHOUT—A person who looks after elephants.
NAAN—Soft white-flour flatbread cooked in a tandoor oven.
NAMASTE—“Hello” in Hindi.
PAAN—A red leaf from the betel tree, chewed like tobacco.
PAISA, PAISAY—An Indian currency unit, similar to cents in the United States. One hundred paisay make a rupee.
PAKORA, PAKORAY—A fried potato-and-onion savory snack made with chickpea flour.
PANEER—Soft cheese, often cooked with peppers, onions, and tomatoes.
PARATHA, PARATHAY—Layered whole wheat flatbread filled with potato and smothered in butter.
ROTI, ROTIA—A flatbread made with whole wheat flour and cooked on a griddle, similar to a Mexican tortilla.
RUPEE—The currency of India.
SHUKRIAA—Thank you.
TANDOOR—A clay oven used to cook naan, as well as chicken and other meats.
TAVA—A griddle.
THALI, THALIA—A stainless steel tray with compartments for different dishes.
TULSI—Holy basil herb.
YAAR—A friendly way to refer to a man, similar to “pal.”
FAITH IS THE BIRD THAT FEELS THE LIGHT
WHEN THE DAWN IS STILL DARK
—Rabindranath Tagore
I crouch close to the bittersweet straw in the cowshed, last night’s strange dream racing through my heart. The cows shuffle to make room as I steady myself and duck low along the floor. I pry my fingers under the heavy stone, pulling out the small wooden box.
My hands tremble as I lift the lid, carefully unfold Papa’s last letter, and trace his address across the fragile yellow paper.
He’s been working away for eight long months and I don’t know why he hasn’t written since the half-moon in May, four months ago. I brush away my salty tears with the back of my hand and, even though I know his letter by heart, read each word as if he were right here with me.
I begin to refold the letter but the clang of the spare cowbell startles me. It’s swinging from a hook in the far corner, where not a breath of air can reach it.
And suddenly I’m back in the frozen landscape of my dream, lost in the ice wilderness of the Himalayas. I press my back against Tulsi’s steamy body and struggle to calm her; the cows are spooked too.
I put the letter in my pocket and follow the bell as it moves from side to side through the whisper-still air. Goose bumps spike my arms and beads of cold sweat prickle my forehead, even though the shed is blazing with heat.
I keep my eyes fixed on the bell, grab Papa’s scarf from the shelf, and wind it around my neck. I breathe in his comforting scent to stop the panic rising … then the bell sounds again, this time even more loudly, echoing in the air like a death toll.
I’m about to run and tell Ma but stumble when I hear Jeevan outside shouting my name, his urgent footsteps pounding closer and closer. He bursts in, sending straw and dust flying everywhere.
“Asha!” His face is red-hot and fear sparks in his brown eyes. “Asha, come quick, your ma needs you.”
“What is it?” I clutch the scarf. “You’re scaring me.”
“Just c-come.” He’s panting so hard that his words burst out in snatches. “Something terrible is … I’ll tell you on the way.”
“Is Ma all right? Is she hurt? Tell me.”
“We’ve got to get down there.” He grabs hold of my hand, pulling me out of the shed, and we hurtle downhill to the village, but the path is steep and the loose stones are making me slip as air shoots into my lungs in painful gulps.
I squint toward the clutch of houses, shielding my eyes against the glare of the shiny solar panels, and just make out a group of people gathered around our gates. They look like little dots from here and I can’t work out who they are.
When we get closer, I see Ma, her green chunni flying through the air like it does when she uses it to swat flies.
Jeevan grips my hand so tightly I can feel his fingernails, sharp on my palms.
“There’s a woman and some men,” says Jeevan between breaths. “Not from around here. They’re asking for money from your ma.”
I feel sick, press my side to stop
