“Going home with your family for Divali?” he asks, sliding open a wooden compartment door and showing us inside.
“Yes,” Papa replies, pulling us close.
“Have a good journey, yaar.”
“We will,” says Papa, smiling.
The final fringes of Zandapur flash past the window. The small, fragile houses with corrugated tin roofs stand together, while glass tower blocks reflect the white smoggy sky, and women in multicolored saris carry bricks on their heads. I think of Attica, Sami, and the others and hope they do come to see us one day.
Jeevan’s fallen asleep leaning into the corner, where the seat meets the window. I take off my long chunni with lilac trim, fold it, and tuck it under his head.
The clackety-clack of the iron wheels makes it impossible to stay awake and I feel my eyelids closing to the rhythm of the train.
I dream of all the places I’ve been and all the people I’ve met. Of tigers, wolves, and soaring mountains, of kindly shepherds, solemn pilgrims, and devious junkyard owners, of my mystical nanijee and the sprouting mango, all the dreams intertwined.
From time to time, I faintly hear the carriage door slide open and closed. I’m still worried about reaching home on time, but right now, there’s nothing I can do about it. The abrupt punch of the ticket machine snaps me awake once, but I sleep more deeply than I have since leaving home.
The train begins to shake, slowing down, its wheels screeching against the metal rails. I open my eyes slowly and see that Papa’s already awake, and so is Jeevan.
The train enters Sonahaar station slowly, coming to a standstill at a busy platform jammed with people searching for their families.
“Come on!” says Papa. “We’re here.”
We collect our belongings and Papa puts his arms around us as we hurriedly leave the compartment.
“It feels strange being back here again after so long, doesn’t it?” says Jeevan.
“I know,” I say, pushing my way out of the crowded train.
Papa leads the way and we head out of the station toward a line of yellow taxis puffing dark fumes into the air. A cooling wind shakes the neem tree where I sheltered from the traffic six whole weeks ago, and now the first of its autumn leaves are spiraling through the air, landing in untidy piles on the ground.
Papa leads us to a bright orange rickshaw. We climb in and before we know it, we’re speeding through the streets, leaving the town behind us and heading down the long straight road to Moormanali.
I remember how I made this same journey before, hidden in the cart. I don’t have to hide now; it doesn’t matter who sees me—I’m with my papa. I can’t wait to hug Rohan and Roopa and I can hardly sit still I’m so excited to see Ma, but every time I think of her, my stomach begins to whirl.
The rickshaw swings around a corner and bumps over the dirt road that leads to Moormanali.
“I can’t take you right into the village, the road’s too bad,” shouts the driver over the noise of the engine. “You’ll have to walk the last bit.”
“We’re almost there,” I say to Jeevan. I glance up at the sky—the sun’s nearly setting. We might just arrive on time.
The frown between Jeevan’s eyebrows has returned and he’s biting the inside of his mouth.
“Don’t worry, Jeevan, it’s going to be OK.”
“I’m just thinking what my ma’s going to say … or do. She might wallop me.”
“She might … but she’ll hug you after! I’m thinking the same about my ma.”
Papa pays the driver and we get out of the rickshaw. And suddenly, there it is!
Butterflies loop through my stomach as my beautiful mountain appears before me, lit up by the blush of the setting sun.
Jeevan looks serious. “Don’t worry about your parents,” I say, moving closer to him. “Papa will explain.”
“We were away such a long time.”
“They’re going to be so happy you’re back … They’ll forget all about that as soon as they see you.” I twist the band that Jeevan gave me for my birthday. “And anyway, it’s Divali, nobody will be angry today.”
We carry on toward the mountain, passing a large handmade sign written in English and Punjabi.
A loud trumpeting echoes through the waving bamboo ahead of us and we catch up with the mahout leading his elephant into the village. He twists around in amazement. “Paras?” he asks, blinking against the dusky light. “Enakshi said she’d had your telegram—good to see you back.”
“Namaste,” replies Papa.
“Is that Asha with you, and Jeevan? Everyone in the village has been talking about their journey.”
“Yes,” says Papa proudly. “They came to find me … Just think, these two special children went so far by themselves.”
We walk side by side, along the dry path toward home.
“Jeevan’s ma showed everyone the postcards they sent,” the mahout says, pulling the elephant’s rope a little tighter. “So they’ve really brought you back.” He smiles and looks at Jeevan and me. “How about a ride on my best elephant? Mona’s all ready for the Divali celebrations.”
“That’s really kind,” I say, “but we’re in a real hurry and running will be quicker.”
Papa looks toward the setting sun and laughs. “I think we have time, and if the offer’s still open I think these two deserve a hero’s homecoming.”
I look longingly toward Mona, draped in a shimmering gold blanket, with painted red and white dots around her eyes like a bride. She towers above me, a wide wooden seat big enough to carry us all on her back.
“Can we, Papa?”
“If you’re sure?” he asks the mahout.
“Of course,” he says. “You can all climb on. It will be like a proper Divali celebration, a homecoming on an elephant.”
“Just like Rama and Sita,” I say to Jeevan, tugging his sleeve.
“Yes,” he replies shyly. “We’ll be just
