And for my dear nanijee and all the daughters of my family.
I place my feet at the edge of the pool, my toes curled around the smooth marble rim, and jump in, releasing my braid into the icy water. The holy water covers me completely, swallowing me up in its swirls of cascading froth, my lungs gripped by iron fingers, the freezing shock sucking away my breath.
The water parts as I burst back to the surface just in time to see my dark braid of hair disappear through the channel and make its way outside, where the Holy River Ganges—filled with snowmelt and monsoon storms—will carry it down the mountainside.
Cold drops of water bead and drip over my head and onto my face. I’m standing shoulder-deep in the pool, my teeth chattering. “Jeevan … Can you pass me the deeva? Be careful not to let it go out.”
He takes the clay deeva in the palm of his hand and slowly holds it toward me.
I lean across to the garland, pluck a white flower, place it in the deeva, and float it in the pool, pressing my palms together to finish the ritual.
“It’s your turn now.” I lift myself out and sit on the edge, my breath rising and falling in time to my dancing heart.
Jeevan gives a worried smile. “Do you think my ma will be proud of me?”
“Of course she will, Jeevan—she’ll be amazed by what you’ve done … I promise.”
“Here goes, then … bath time!” Jeevan jumps into the pool, vanishing beneath the bubbling water for a few moments, then stands in the water, closes his eyes, and says his prayers.
As my thoughts drift to Papa in Zandapur, then to Ma back home, I feel warm, familiar hands on my shoulders …
Asha, Asha, Asha, my love,
The thunder brought you,
For me to love.
Do you remember how you asked me to sing this over and over again so you wouldn’t have to go back to the dreams of past lives that woke you screaming in the middle of the night?
I held you close and you traced the bumpy veins in my old, wrinkled hands, telling me they were the rivers flowing down to the sea.
I feel a blanket wrapped around me and everything is perfect, like the warmth of sunshine when your eyelids are closed. My pendant rocks …
Nanijee?
I look around, scanning the hall for the soft folds of her embroidered sari where I used to hide, her song still echoing in my head, but there’s no one there.
Jeevan gets out of the water and sits beside me. “It’s so cold,” he says, shivering, tying his hair back into the topknot. Little strands have come loose and stick to his face. “What’s the matter?” he asks.
“S-something strange just happened. I think my nanijee was here.” I stare back into the pool.
“Really?”
I blink and take a deep breath. “Maybe everything will turn out right after all.” I pull an edge of the blanket and tuck it around his shoulder. “She put this on me. I was shivering.”
“It was probably the priest.”
“Why do you never believe me?”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you.” He tightens the blanket. “We’re just different … It would be boring if we were all the same, wouldn’t it?” He nudges me. “I’m Mr. Science, remember?”
“Yeah, exactly.”
I take out the mango stone I planted at the beginning of our journey and place it beside me as I listen to the pilgrims chanting. The golden glow of all the deevay shimmering in the water makes everything look magical.
I bend toward the banana leaf pot, looking for any sign of a shoot, but the soil is still bare. “Maybe the holy water will make you grow.” I scoop a palmful of the cold Ganges water and sprinkle it over the soil, patting it with my fingers. “There … Grow, little mango, grow for Papa.” I blink my eyes closed and carry on listening to the sounds of the temple, thinking about Nanijee and all my ancestors, feeling the rhythms pulling me away into their spirit world.
Jeevan touches my shoulder and I come back with a start.
“Shall we get changed? I’m frozen.”
I pick up the mango pot, nestling it between my hands, and sense a warmth passing through the damp banana leaf. I give it a final sprinkle of water, wrinkling my nose in pleasure as the smell of the damp earth reminds me of early morning, walking barefoot with Papa on the grazing pastures.
Jeevan pulls me to my feet. “Hurry up … You look like you’ve been sleeping. I’m starving.”
I’m still in a daze as we walk toward a doorway and are greeted by smells of spiced dhal and freshly baked naan. “This way,” calls a woman. “Towels are on the side and then you can sit for food over there.”
Once we’re dry we squeeze between the others and sit cross-legged, eating our food from shiny thalia.
My heart feels like it is full of singing birds that will burst into the room at any moment, filling the temple with happiness.
I look up toward a small set of windows with carvings of Lord Shiva’s story all around them at the very top of the large hall. Through one of them I can see the tiniest slice of moon hanging in the darkness. It shines onto the mango pot, bathing it in its silvered light.
“Jeevan, look! When we started our journey the moon was full and now it’s nearly starting out again … like us.”
“That means we’ve been away from Moormanali for almost two whole weeks,” he replies, scooping rice into his mouth. “It feels like months, though.” He shifts his gaze down to my side. “So your mango stone’s sprouted, then.”
“What?” I pick up the stone, which a moment ago had nothing growing from it, and lift it to the light. “That’s amazing! It must have been the holy water and all my praying that made it happen.” It has a strong green shoot about the
