The mahout calls to her softly, “Down, Mona,” and she crouches low, bending her knees so we can climb up.
Papa climbs on first, lifting his foot into the stirrup against the crinkled gray skin of the elephant. Pulling on the neatly woven reins, he settles himself firmly on the seat, then holds out his hand to Jeevan, and I watch proudly as he swings him up.
“Hey, Asha,” calls Jeevan, excitement dancing in his eyes, “I can see everything from here.”
I’m so eager to get on I stretch toward Jeevan and slip my hand into his. He hauls me up … Have I gotten lighter or has he gotten stronger?
The gold thread of the elephant’s blanket sparkles against the setting sun. I rearrange the silk folds of my lengha skirt so it doesn’t crease, feeling every bit like a warrior queen returning to her kingdom.
With a great heave the elephant stands up, and I feel her strength under me as the mahout walks in front, leading us on the final part of our long adventure.
“I bet you never thought you’d ride home on an elephant,” says Jeevan. His voice squeaks and ends in a funny deep way I’ve never heard before.
He looks older than when we started the journey and somehow different. There’s a faint shadow of a mustache on his lip that I’ve only just noticed. It makes me want to run my finger along it, to check that it isn’t my imagination. I want to giggle but I’m not sure why.
We climb a little hill and as we dip down the other side I see our village, at last. My chunni flutters behind me like the wings of a lamagaia, and it’s then that I spot my nanijee circling above us. I give her a gigantic wave. My pendant rocks and she swoops down, following behind us as we get closer to the village, calling to us.
“Papa, look!”
“Asha … It’s your nanijee, she’s guiding us home,” says Jeevan.
I squeeze his hand and she flies over, brushing our heads with the tips of her velvety wings. I gaze up, watching her soar into the dark pink sky with a powerful whoosh of air. “Thank you, Nanijee.”
As we carry on into the village, I look down at the houses I haven’t seen for so long, bundled together, keeping each other company. Higher up on the grazing plains, small shadowy dots move slowly across the mountain. Our cows!
People in the fields stop what they’re doing and lift their heads in our direction. The air rings with the sounds of our names.
It’s been nine months since Papa’s seen this view. The sky is deep red, turning a darker purple as a small flock of rosefinches flit against the sky, making shapes that look like moving hearts.
The clouds shift in the breeze, puffing into different shapes. I see Lord Shiva, the warrior goddess Durga riding the tiger, the temple in the mountains, and the Holy Ganges flowing from the rock, lighting up the whole sky like a story.
Both Papa and Jeevan stare into the sky as well, but maybe I’m the only one who can see the images. It doesn’t matter. I’ve learned to trust myself.
Mona lifts up her trunk and blows a heralding trumpet. As she quiets and continues walking, another sound drifts toward us: raised angry voices, faint at first but becoming louder.
Then I see Meena’s red car parked outside our gates and I grip the reins tighter. I spot Ma in the middle of the gang but Rohan and Roopa aren’t there. Why can’t I see them?
“Papa, Meena’s here already with her thugs,” I yell. “We have to hurry. Can you stop the elephant, please?” I ask the mahout. I’m frantic now.
“Stop,” says Papa, “quickly.”
A crowd of villagers surround the elephant, shouting and pointing back toward our house.
“Hey,” I shout at the top of my lungs. “We’re back and my papa’s here.”
Meena stares at us. Her thugs just stand there, mouths wide open as if they’ve seen a ghost.
The elephant stops and kneels down and I slide off, rushing toward the crowd, followed closely by Papa and Jeevan. I see now that Rohan and Roopa are safe, standing with Jeevan’s parents.
Meena steps toward us in her pristine Western clothes and dark glasses, sneering at us. Her men close in to protect her, raising their heavy wooden batons.
Ma struggles away from them, her face ashen, and runs to Papa, who pulls her to him.
“Stop,” he says as the men spring forward. “There’s no need for you or your men to come any farther.” He delves into his pocket and brings out the compensation money and his wages and waves it in the air.
Meena looks shocked and disgusted at the same time. “Are you sure you have it all?” she says, nodding at the men to take the money.
“Wait,” says Papa, and he demands to see the full details of the loan first. He reads it carefully before counting out the notes slowly. “That covers the interest too—I’ll come to Sonahaar tomorrow to get the tractor back. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
Meena shrugs and flicks imaginary dirt off her sleeve. “I gave your family money when they needed it—but it was never a present.”
“Get out of our village,” continues Papa, his anger flaring.
Meena gestures to the men, who rush to open the car door for her. She slips inside and the darkened windows slide up soundlessly. They leave the village, the car throwing up a trail of dust and stones.
Early Divali fireworks spark into the dusk as the car disappears over the horizon.
“The fireworks have started!” shouts Jeevan. “And good riddance to bad rubbish.”
Jeevan’s parents run toward us, folding Jeevan in their arms.
“Ma,” I cry, pressing my whole body into hers. “Ma, we’re home.”
She takes my hands, holding me away to get a proper look. “Asha! Don’t ever leave like that again!” she shouts, but then pulls
