I trace the lines on his palms, desperate to know if they show a happy ending. He shifts on the bed and his eyelids give a brief flutter, but he still doesn’t wake.
I lift the mango seedling that I’ve carried through our whole journey and examine it. It made such a long journey in its fragile banana leaf and survived so much. Now in its fresh new pot it’s starting to look like a proper little plant. I balance it on the scratched metal table next to the bed, lift the heavy water jug, and pour a few drops onto it.
Lakshmi must have given me one of her special deevay, ones she’s bought specially for Divali. The clay is painted bright shiny yellow and there are tiny glass pieces all around the rim. I run my finger along the edge—it’s so pretty. I carefully strike a match, light the deeva, and place it in front of the seedling.
I screw my eyes tightly closed, place my palms together, and say a prayer … I hear the rushing water of the Ganges, the mountain winds whistling their way through the valleys of Moormanali, and I connect to the ancient rhythms of my ancestors.
The light is fading fast, and in the growing darkness the orange flicker of the deeva lights up the mango seedling.
With fresh confidence I begin my incantation to bring Papa back from the shadowy world he has been stuck in these past months. “Papa.” I bow my head with love. “The journey to find you has been so long and treacherous … I’ve had to fight my way to get here, crossing mountains, facing dangers I could only have imagined, and now I ask, if you can hear me, wake up so we can all go home. Ma is waiting all by herself with Rohan and Roopa.”
I rest my head against his chest, listening to the thump-thumping of his heart. “I’ve come to get you, Papa. You have to remember me. It was so hard—Jeevan got really ill in the forest, then we climbed all the way to the highest temple in the world … Some men trapped us in a junkyard and made us work until our fingers bled. Ma borrowed money, Pa—and there’s a deadline. We have to pay the loan back by Divali or we’ll lose our home forever.” I take Papa’s hand and rest it against my cheek. A tear rolls down his finger. “That’s why I need you to remember me. I need your help.”
The evening ticks by and I watch Papa closely as each hour slips into the next, waiting for him to wake up.
Finally, his lashes move briefly before his eyes spring open in fright, as if he’s still dreaming. He looks past me without saying a word.
“Papa, it’s me … It’s Asha.” I grip the blanket more tightly.
I hold his face between my palms, turning it so he has to look at me. His face is blank but I’m frantic to help him remember. I take off my pendant, push it into his hand. “Look at this. It’s Nanijee’s necklace—the one she gave to Ma, and Ma gave it to me because it’s my turn to wear it now. It helped me to be strong … Ma said that I decide what I believe for myself. That’s what I did—I believed my dreams and they helped me to find you.”
But he doesn’t seem to see it and lets it fall from his hand.
I press the pendant back into his palm and hold it there, as if we’re sharing a prayer, feeling its rhythm as the curved shape touches our skin. I unclasp my hand and it seems to send out a glow, lighting up his face.
I lift the mango seedling and brush the leaves under his nose. “Look, Papa, I carried the stone all the way from our orchard back home.”
He blinks and frowns as if the scent has reminded him of something, but the blank expression returns and he drops his head to one side.
“Please remember us.”
“When is the nurse coming?” he says, ignoring me. “She comes every day.”
“We have to get home to Moormanali, Papa.”
“Where’s that?” His voice is quiet, confused. “This is my home. Who are you? Why are you calling me Papa?”
I know he doesn’t mean it, but his words hurt more than anything that’s happened so far.
The song he used to sing to me comes into my head, and I sing it as softly and sweetly as I can.
“Uncle Moon’s gone far away,
Where’s he gone? Where’s he gone?
Far, far away.
Chanda Mama dhoor ke,
Chanda Mama dhoor ke.
Kithay ke? Kithay ke?
Dhoor, dhoor ke.”
The lullaby calms him to sleep as the sky outside turns midnight blue and I watch over him.
But then he opens his eyes suddenly, although he’s still asleep. “Hot, burning hot,” he cries out again and again, his face filled with panic as if he’s back in the factory seeing the horror over and over again.
“I’m here, Papa.” I try to wake him from the nightmare. “It’s all over. You’re safe.”
But it doesn’t make any difference. He stays inside his head, locked away from me. I lie next to him, tears sliding from the corners of my eyes, and watch him fall asleep again, without knowing who I am.
What’s the point? Nothing is working—not my prayers, not the mango seedling I’ve carried and nurtured … nothing! I lay my head on the blanket and, completely exhausted, let sleep wash over me.
In the morning, dawn edges its way into the small room, filling every corner with a soft pink haze as I wake slowly from an
