My nanijee is still there waiting for me, drawing me to her with wings unfolded like the god Garuda. “I’m coming,” I call.
“Grab hold,” says Papa, reaching farther down until his hands grasp mine firmly.
Legs shaking, I push myself out of the dank darkness into the halo of happy faces.
Everyone circles me as I tear off the dirty cloth to reveal a box made from smooth shisham wood. The spirit bird ruffles her feathers, hops closer, and taps the ornate catch with her beak.
“Look how she’s helping,” squeals Roopa, stroking her wing.
I lift the lid to reveal layers of dusty gold jewelry, bridal headdresses, ornate bangles, all laid neatly, filling the box to the top. “I can’t believe it,” I gasp, cradling it against my chest so everyone can see the jewels lit up against the deevay.
I feel a rhythm so powerful that it transports me to another world and I see the beautiful face of my nanijee and all the forgotten daughters of my family calling to me from the distant past, sending their blessings. I see the story of each piece of gold, how it was given with love at a special time, and it touches my heart.
“It’s all the daughters’ gold … You found it!” cries Ma, astounded.
My heart clatters against my chest. The story was true!
Ma stretches out her hand, and this time she lightly touches my spirit bird’s golden feathers. “M-Ma?” she whispers, wiping her cheek.
“Maybe we can buy a new tractor now and keep the farm going,” I say. “And Papa won’t have to go back to the city—and we won’t ever have to leave for England.”
“Your ma can make her famous mango chutney,” says Jeevan, his mind whizzing with ideas. “Your uncle Neel can help export it.”
“Great idea,” I reply.
“Maybe we can set up mountain lodges for tourists,” he continues, getting more excited.
“And you can give night tours and explain the stars.” I smile.
Everyone carries on chattering, discussing new projects, laughing, and joking. I walk toward the shisham tree with my nanijee following behind and sit on the cool damp ground. I clasp my nanijee gently in my arms and she moves toward me, our foreheads touching. We stay like this, staring deep into each other’s eyes, previous lives flashing before us, comforted by the power of eternal reincarnation.
After one final embrace she turns her head to the amazed faces watching us, raises her immense wings, and flies into the ink-black sky.
“Don’t go too far.”
I know now that if you believe in yourself, you can do anything for the people you love.
I run over to Jeevan, slip my hand in his.
“Friends forever?” he says, turning to face me.
“Friends forever,” I say. “Whatever the future holds.”
I was born in northern Punjab on a farm close to the Himalayas. My grandfather died when my dad was only twelve and so it was left to my grandmother, my majee, to look after five children and keep the farm going with help from my great-uncle. As a woman this would have been a challenging and difficult task, especially since my family had a high position in the village and as such she would have been closely observed.
Amongst the other animals on the farm, we had a camel and a wild monkey, Oma, who became part of the family. At nightfall, the skies were alight with millions of stars and this is when we used to set up a fire outside, make toffee popcorn, and tell stories. When I returned to India for the first time, I was amazed at how well-preserved the farm was. It was so beautiful: You could see wide views of bright green fields of sugarcane from the first-floor balconies. When we made a cup of tea, guess where the milk came from? Directly from the cow into the cup!
My lovely uncle Lashkar was the first member of the family to move to the UK and, once he had settled, he wanted all his brothers to join him. So like many families at that time, when I was a year and a half, we moved to the UK too. My great-uncle stayed behind to look after the farm.
Imagine how it must have felt to leave everything behind and go to a place practically halfway round the world! But we were a very close-knit family and my earliest memories are of big gatherings where my uncles would keep all the memories of the farm alive by telling funny stories. One of the favorite stories was how Oma used to love taking my brother off to the neem tree in the farmyard, where she would rock him to sleep in her arms.
The story my majee always told was of me standing on the wall of the well, which was dangerously deep, bawling my eyes out as the monsoon rain lashed down, and how she ran to my rescue.
There was always lots of laughter on these occasions and my mum would cook up amazing food for everyone. One of her specialties was spiced potato parathay, a sort of whole wheat flatbread layered with butter and cooked on a tava until puffed and crispy.
I wrote Asha and the Spirit Bird as the dissertation element of my MA in Creative Writing, and when I was thinking of ideas, I just knew that the heart of my story would take me back to the land of my birth and back to my majee.
The seed of the story began with an image of a little girl on a farm in India, playing in the dirt with water that she had collected from the well.
I couldn’t shake this image away, so I began to take my own memories, twisting them into a magical story. I asked myself lots of what-if questions … What if we had stayed on the farm? What if things got tough and my dad had to go off to the city to work? What if we
