My chest is filled with bubbles of excitement, which fizz and flutter as it sinks in that I’m really here.
My nanijee is still on the ridge next to us and I hold out my hands toward her, bringing them together in thanks. She stays for a moment longer before soaring above the temple, the air whooshing behind her, her wings outstretched in splendor, and then she disappears into the snow-white clouds.
“See?” I say. “It is her!”
“Mmm … maybe … or maybe it’s a temple bird used to getting all the tidbits from the pilgrims.”
“Oh, Jeevan!”
Prayer flags in all the colors of the rainbow are strung across the front of the temple, and towering behind it, covered in violet-white snow, is the colossal mountain—the mountain where the Holy Ganges is born.
I slip my hand into Jeevan’s, and together we follow the path down to the temple. We cross the threshold through to a vast hall with smooth marble floors. It’s filled with people sitting cross-legged, their heads bowed and their eyes closed in prayer.
I brush the dust off my clothes and straighten my top, feeling the short hairs on the back of my head prickle with nerves.
The hall is glowing with candles and more deevay, the air scented with sandalwood mixed with woody patchouli and rose.
“Can you believe even those old women climbed all the way here?” says Jeevan loudly.
“Don’t stare!” I hiss, stooping down, feeling a pang of embarrassment as I pull off my dirty, torn sneakers and line them up next to the chappala—the gold-embroidered shoes and the worn leather slippers that belong to all the other pilgrims.
Jeevan unties his laces hurriedly. “Shall we do the rituals as soon as we can? Then we can leave first thing in the morning and head straight to the city.”
“Slow down! You’re always in such a rush.”
“Sorry, Asha.” He tugs my sleeve. “I know this is important.”
“No … You’re right. We can’t waste a minute. Who knows what’s happened to Papa. We’ll do the rituals tonight and be ready for Zandapur tomorrow.” My heart gives a patter.
The source of the Ganges must be over there,” whispers Jeevan, looking toward a line of people that snakes its way along one side of the hall.
We get behind a man wearing nothing but a dhoti, the length of bright orange fabric wrapped around his waist and twisted through his legs to make a typical yogi’s outfit.
“He must be freezing … Look at his hair!” I say.
It falls all the way down to the floor in long, matted locks.
“I bet he’s spent all his life visiting temples,” says Jeevan, beaming from ear to ear. “I wouldn’t enjoy brushing that, though!”
I nudge Jeevan. “Shhh …”
There’s a priest at the head of the line wearing orange flowing robes that skim the ground. He dips his fingers into a brass bowl and flicks holy water over the milling crowds. “Blessings … blessings,” he calls. “Blessings to all the pilgrims who’ve made this journey.” He hurls rose and marigold petals into the air. “The Holy Ganges honors her visitors.”
The sound of the roaring water becomes louder as we move closer to the front of the line.
“I’m going to say prayers for my brother as well as my ma and papa,” says Jeevan.
“I think he’d really like that.”
We link arms and together we approach the exact spot where the Ganges is born.
“Welcome,” says the priest, giving us a smile that makes his eyes almost disappear. “Where are your parents?”
“We’ve traveled here together,” says Jeevan. “And we’re on our way to Zandapur, to find Asha’s papa.”
“Yes … I’m Asha, and this is Jeevan.”
“And we’re from Moormanali,” he says.
“So, Jeevan and Asha.” The priest picks up a gleaming silver bowl, dips his finger into it, and paints thick red dye between my eyebrows and then Jeevan’s. “Here’s your red pilgrim’s mark. Now everyone will know what you’ve done and how far you’ve been.”
“Thank you.” I bow my head, breathing deeply, and move farther forward toward the source.
At last we’re right at the very spot where the River Ganges springs from a rose-colored rock and cascades into a huge marble-edged pool. There are pilgrims bathing right below the opening, which is about five times as wide as my outstretched arms.
The water splashes everywhere, sending fine, lacy mist traveling up into the air. “Look how fierce it is,” I say, mesmerized.
“Wow … How do you think they built this temple all the way up here?” asks Jeevan. “All I’d need is a boat and the water could take me straight into the whole of India.”
“Don’t be silly!” I giggle. “It’d take forever to get around the whole of India … shall we do our offerings now?”
I place the flower garland that Nahul’s little sister, Teenu, gave me on the floor and take a space next to Jeevan beside the pool.
I slip my hand into the bundle and search for the braid I cut off in Sonahaar and carried all the way especially for this moment. I hold it coiled in my palm, ready to offer it up.
I close my eyes and meditate on my offering for the Holy River Ganges, the Daughter of the Mountain.
I clasp the pendant to my chest and try to connect with the spirit of my nanijee and all the daughters in my family who’ve ever worn the necklace before me. I feel the ancient rhythms spanning across time, reaching out to me, as if I could almost touch them with my fingertips.
Please, Daughter of the Mountain, I bring this offering to you as I have seen in my visions.
I have come to honor you,
Just as you came to earth to help us in the past.
Will you come to my aid now?
Lead me to Papa,
Please let my family be reunited.
Give blessings to all those who have helped me,
Above all for my friend Jeevan … I especially thank you for saving his life. Without his help I
