“Plants store up their energy and then, when the conditions are right, they spring into life,” Jeevan says, stuffing more food into his mouth.
“No, Jeevan! It was the praying and the water and my nanijee that have made it grow so quickly.” I can feel a broad grin spreading across my face. “It’s sprouted and that’s all that matters.”
I put the seedling back into the moonlight, its shadow stretching across the marble floor.
“We’ll leave for Zandapur tomorrow. And just think, it’s four whole weeks till Divali and probably only a few days before we find Papa and bring him home.”
“That will be amazing, won’t it?” says Jeevan. “Just imagine the look on your ma’s face when you appear back in Moormanali with your papa by your side!”
Early the next morning, we collect our things and kneel to say one last prayer before setting off for Zandapur. I try to gather my thoughts into neat little piles but my mind keeps skipping from one thing to another, then back to Moormanali. Has Ma written back to Uncle Neel yet? My stomach clenches … I must hurry and find Papa.
We join a group of pilgrims and walk away from the temple, flicking glances toward the bushy pine trees.
“We can’t believe you came all this way by yourselves,” says a woman wrapped in a pink woolen shawl. “It takes some people their whole lives to make a trip to this temple, and you’ve done it already.”
“The spirit of my nanijee makes me strong,” I say.
“But you had to decide to come,” says Jeevan.
“Yes … Ma said I have to work out what I believe for myself, and that’s exactly what I did … And you came with me. So maybe it’s a mixture of things.”
The woman with the shawl laughs. “Who knows whether our ancestors are really with us. But they do say that some people can feel their presence.”
We carry on walking along the path, listening to the birds of prey sending out their echoing calls from way up in the sky. I keep looking around, expecting to see my spirit bird again and thinking about Nanijee, feeling stronger and more determined to find Papa and bring him home before Meena and her thugs return.
“Asha?” says Jeevan. “Are you scared about what we might find in the city?”
I tug at the ties to my hood. “Part of me is worried about what we’ll find once we get there … I mean, why hasn’t he written?” And what if the truth is even harder than not knowing?
Jeevan moves closer. “We won’t know anything until we find him … and we can’t change what’s happened. But when he sees what you’ve done and how far you’ve come, he’ll think you’re the most courageous daughter he could ever wish for … like Sita with her bow and arrow, or Durga fighting off the demons!”
“Really?”
“Really. I mean, look at all the hard stuff we’ve done.”
“Maybe you’re right.” I look toward the dark outline of the pines against the morning sun. “It’s not over yet, though. We still have to get down the mountain safely,” I say, the memory of what happened in the forest gripping my throat.
It’s early afternoon by the time we get to the road and it feels strange to be surrounded by buses and cars again after the peacefulness of the temple.
“Let’s share a drink.” I walk over to one of the stalls. “We haven’t spent much money and Zandapur’s not far now, so I think we’ll have enough.”
“Asha … postcards. Let’s send another one home.”
I count my coins. “OK … What about this one of the temple?” I pick it up and pay.
We write the postcard quickly and slip it into the postbox. As we turn away with our drinks I catch sight of something that turns my mouth dry and sets my heart pounding.
“Jeevan, look at that poster!”
He splutters his drink on the ground. “Keep your head down.”
I study the small poster. “These photos don’t look anything like us.”
“Well, that boy recognized you.” He pulls the poster off the tree and stuffs it into his pocket. “Now that we’re getting closer to Zandapur there will be more police everywhere.”
One of the pilgrims calls us over. “That blue bus will take you right into Zandapur,” she says, pointing to one that’s already rammed with people. “Look after each other and be careful in the city—it’s full of all sorts of people, not all of them good.”
“We will,” I say.
The pilgrim presses a few coins into my palm. “Bless you on your journey, little ones.”
“Thank you,” says Jeevan, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile.
My insides are starting to twist and turn as I climb onto the crowded bus, pulling my hood up to hide my face.
“Go there,” says Jeevan, pointing to a space right at the back.
The bus begins to hum and shake as the driver turns the engine. A cold breeze blows in through the open door and we pull out of the small tangle of stalls and shops before turning at a big sign that says ZANDAPUR.
It doesn’t take long before we’re on a road that twists dangerously down steep rocky gorges. There are views for miles of wooded valleys full of dark pines and crashing waterfalls.
“Once we get to Zandapur, we need to be very careful who we trust. Just imagine if I could control my dream visions—I’d be able to see the faces of all the evil people in the city and keep us safe.”
“Now that would be handy.” Jeevan snuggles deeper into his seat. “Asha, how do you know whether to believe something you dream about?”
“It’s strange.” I look out the window. “Some dreams are really clear, like the one about the journey to find Papa. I try to work them out.”
“So they’re a bit like a puzzle.”
“Yes, I
