We must get to Galapoor today, so we can get to Zandapur as soon as possible and find Papa.
I shake Jeevan. “Wake up. It’s dawn already.”
A little black-and-white bird flies into the tree and begins scratching at the ground. I crumble a purple-streaked pistachio on my palm and hold it out. “You’ll like this.”
It takes a small beakful and flies off through the branches.
“Come on, sleepyhead!” I take the lamagaia feather and brush it across Jeevan’s eyes.
“Where am I?” he asks, sitting up abruptly.
“We’re on our journey, remember? The Two Musketeers?”
“Slow down, Asha,” says Jeevan, yawning. “I need a minute or two to come around … Shall we have the mango?” He shoves his hand in my bag, finds the mango, and begins peeling it with the penknife.
“The sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll find Papa.”
He carries on peeling the fruit. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“What for?”
“That I didn’t come with you straightaway.” He hands me a slice of mango. “You’ve hardly been out of Moormanali. It took real courage to come all by yourself.”
“And I’m sorry too—you had good reasons for not coming. I wanted to say goodbye properly, I wanted to call you back and give you a hug, but I just couldn’t.”
I pull Nanijee’s gold pendant from under the hoodie and stare at its teardrop shape. “It sounds strange,” I say, letting myself trust Jeevan more now, knowing that he won’t make fun of me like he used to—even if he isn’t quite convinced. “As soon as Ma gave this to me, I knew I could do it. Whenever I hold it I feel something … like a force connecting me with my nanijee.”
“I really want to believe you,” he says, deep in thought.
We finish the rest of the mango in silence.
“Pass me the mango stone.” I twist the banana leaf around it, tucking the end to make its own little plant pot, and scoop some dark red earth into it. I cradle it between my palms and close my eyes. “Grow, grow, sweet mango,” I sing, “carried all the way from Moormanali, push out your greenest shoots for Papa to remind him of home.”
I press the soil firmly and drip water onto it. “I’m going to anoint it with the Holy Ganges when we get to the temple,” I say, cocooning it in Papa’s scarf and placing it in my bag.
We walk along a steep road fringed with tall deodar pines and wild rosebushes, which have shed their white petals and left behind fat orange hips. A tuneful whistling thrush, its deep blue feathers speckled with white, lands on a branch and looks at us.
The sun is almost overhead before we spot any signs for Galapoor, and then a truck comes blasting down the road, sounding its horn, shattering the peace, flicking a dusty trail of dirt and stones into my eyes.
“How long have we been walking?” I ask, slowing down. “I’m really thirsty.”
“I don’t know,” says Jeevan, looking back the way we’ve come. “But I’m sure we’ll come across a stream now that we’re going higher.”
I’m trying not to think about it, but my throat is parched and my ankle is starting to ache again.
“Look at that massive bird,” says Jeevan in wonder, pointing down the road. “I think it’s following us!”
I shade my eyes and spot the bird; it stays just ahead of us, stopping every time we do, and my heart gives a little skip. It’s a lamagaia. “Do you believe the spirits of our ancestors live through animals, Jeevan?”
“Mmm … I’m not sure … it doesn’t sound very likely.”
I ignore his doubts. “I think it’s true. I think this bird is keeping an eye on us.” Could it be my nanijee’s spirit?
It perches on a roadside rock and carries on watching us. I wave it farewell as we pass by and I catch sight of its dark eyes just before it takes off. “Come back soon, spirit bird!” I cry as it swoops over our heads.
I take out the feather I found the very first time I saw the bird and wish I still had my long braid to weave it into. Instead, I stroke it against my cheek before putting it back for safekeeping. Jeevan walks beside me, a slight frown on his face, as if he’s trying to work out what he really believes.
We climb farther uphill on the road, which sweeps away toward lines of steep terraces planted with row after row of small, shiny tea plants. People are hunched over them with baskets on their backs, filled with bright green leaves.
The ankle I twisted yesterday is throbbing, sharp shooting pains crawling up my leg every time I take a step. I stop and rest against a post, turning away as more trucks loaded up with crates of fresh tea blast along the road.
“Do you think any of these drivers would give us a lift? I really need to rest my ankle.”
Jeevan sticks his arm out. “Let’s try. The next one might.”
But not a single truck stops. I don’t know how much farther I can walk and my ankle begins to howl more than ever. I collapse onto the edge of the road.
Jeevan rushes to my side. “Are you OK?”
I lift my jeans and rub my swollen ankle. “It’s really sore,” I say, gritting my teeth. “But I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
He pulls me up. “Let’s keep going, then.”
Jeevan seems so full of energy, and he’s right.
“Every step counts,” he continues. “Come on, grab hold of my arm.”
We shuffle along together, Jeevan dragging me with him each time I fall back. A long time passes before we hear another engine rumble.
“This one might stop.” Jeevan sticks out his arm again, full of enthusiasm.
My heart gives a leap as the truck begins to slow down.
“We can say we’re going to stay with our auntie in Galapoor,” he says, grinning.
