“Do not dare to return here, but begone to the northern poles where nothing grows except cruel ice, and place your heart beneath the white bear’s claw, under the ghost wolf’s foot. May you wane forever, shrivel like a coal on the fire, shrink like slime on the wall, waste away like a starving child and become as small as a drop of saliva from a fly’s vomit and much smaller than a speck from the dung heap and so very tiny that you become nothing.”
I slip onto the ground, letting my shoulders droop at last, exhausted by the burden of the day. I sit with my eyes closed, trying to make sense of what’s happened, but it doesn’t make any sense at all. Why would Papa stop sending the money? The rain has cleared the air and I breathe in the early evening smells: warm soil, grass, and the sweet star-shaped bakul flowers, like the ones that Papa collected for me last summer when we took a picnic high into the mountains instead of doing chores. He made them into a garland and crowned me queen of the Himalayas.
Is he safe? Has something happened?
The crickets begin their raucous clicking, droning their steady evening song like a chorus you can’t blot out. I go back inside. I walk over to the small shrine we keep on a shelf in the kitchen and top up the clay deeva with mustard oil.
Striking a match, I light the deeva, just as I’ve done every single night since Papa left, and watch the pale yellow flame flicker dimly at first, then explode into a bright light, shining golden under the statue of Shiva, who looks so calm sitting there with his hand raised in peace. I take a deep breath and my senses fill with the comforting scent of jasmine from the garland Ma twined around his neck this morning.
“Maybe this will bring us some luck.” I put my hands together and close my eyes. “Please, Lord Shiva, protect this house and all of us who live here. Protect my papa, wherever he is. Keep us safe and reunite us and give thanks for Jeevan and his family and our neighbors.” A rush of fear fills my stomach. “A-and especially protect us from Meena.”
When I open my eyes, I notice a letter tucked behind the statue. It’s got a blue British stamp on it and must be from Uncle Neel in England. Why didn’t Ma show it to me? She usually reads all his letters to us. My stomach turns a somersault; she’s been keeping another secret from me! I slip the letter out of its envelope, reading hurriedly, with one eye on the door …
My hand is shaking—I can’t finish reading.
So this is what Ma’s been planning! How can she even consider leaving Papa behind while he’s working to keep us all alive? And what happens when he comes back and there’s nobody here? With the letter still in my hand, I storm outside, gasping for fresh air.
I stand against the house, staring wildly into the sky. My heart won’t stop slamming against my ribs and my breathing is out of control.
The stone wall is scorching with heat from the day and I lean against it. A single mottled toad shuffles out of the shadows and I kneel on the damp mud beside it, listening to its soulful croak.
Way above, a half-moon appears through the burnished evening clouds, lighting up the wings of a circling lamagaia—a bearded vulture—and for some reason it makes me think of Nanijee, Ma’s ma, who died when I was six. Nanijee believed the spirits of our loved ones lived on through animals, and said that after she died she would come back to us and we should look out for her.
I close my eyes and don’t feel quite so jumpy—the memories of my nanijee are tugging me back to earth.
You were such a tiny thing when you came from your ma, bloodied and bawling, hardly bigger than my outstretched hand. You fought your way into the world on that stormy night with the thunder thrashing onto the rooftops and lightning searing the skies.
Your mountain-green eyes shocked the whole village. You were the one chosen to carry forward the ancient name Asha … you were our hope and I clasped you in my arms.
When I open them again, the lamagaia has perched on the old well. It’s about the size of a lamb, with dark bronze wings and a gray beak. Golden feathers cover its head and the rest of its body. It struts around the crumbling wall and begins pecking as if it’s looking for grains of wheat. Then it spreads its wings, which are far wider than my outstretched arms, and lands beside me, right there, on the ground. Even though its wings are now folded, the bird is colossal.
They usually keep away from people, but I’m so close I can see each bright yellow scale on its legs and its gray-ridged talons, which it uses to scratch at the ground.
The lamagaia starts to make a clucking sound, as if trying to tell me something, and I stare into its dark-flecked eyes, mesmerized. I feel a little heart patter of nerves but lean even farther forward, stretching my fingers toward its feathery wing. It hops away—perches back on the well, tilts its head to one side, and lifts its wings.
“I wish you were my nanijee,” I say, my voice quivering. “I need her so much.” A gray feather tinged with gold floats down and lands by my foot. I stroke its silky softness and weave it into my braid. “Perhaps I’ll call you my
