But her expression is suddenly determined. “I don’t want to either. But if we don’t hear from him or receive any money by Divali, we won’t have a choice. We’ll have to sell the farm to pay Meena back. I’ll tell Uncle Neel we’ll come. That will be nearly six months without a word from your papa.”
“Ma, we can’t—that’s only seven weeks away.” I grip the edge of the table. “We can’t leave him. I don’t care what you say. I won’t go, Ma! I won’t!” I run out of the kitchen, Ma following behind.
She finds me in the garden. All the anger has fled from my body and I feel drained. She brings me close to her and I bury my head into her shoulder. “I’m sorry about all this, Asha.” She wipes the tears from my face. “But we have to do something.” She leads me back inside and we stand beside the shrine. “Let’s light another deeva, shall we?”
“Ma,” I whisper, feeling more tired than ever. “Can you tell me the story of when I was born?” I need to chase away the memories of Meena and the men invading our home.
“But you’ve heard it so many times before.”
She’s smiling, though; she loves this story as much as I do. “Please, Ma,” I say, pulling her onto the bench beside me.
“Well, OK,” she begins. “The big Divali celebration, the festival of lights, was approaching. My ma, your nanijee, came to visit from her village in the far-off mountains and everyone lit their deevay, acting out the story of Prince Rama and his wife, Princess Sita, and their return home after being banished by the king, just like every year.” Her face brightens. “Your papa was so attentive; we were very excited. Then out of the blue there was the most spectacular thunderstorm.” Ma unbraids my hair as she speaks. The lamagaia feather falls into my lap, where I hold it carefully.
Ma picks up the comb, passes it through my hair. “You have such long, thick locks, Asha, just like Lord Shiva, so lucky … So that night nearly twelve years ago is when you decided to come into the world … and we called you the thunder baby.”
“And what did Nanijee say when she saw my green eyes?”
Ma gives a deep sigh, as if she’s really missing her ma. “Nanijee took one look into your mountain-green eyes and said, This baby will see things that others can’t.”
“And do you think that’s true, Ma?” I sip some milk and trace the red pattern on the tablecloth with my finger.
“Everything can be seen in different ways,” she says, sprinkling jasmine oil in my hair. “It all depends on what you believe in. You’re growing up now; you have to start working things out for yourself.” She notices the lamagaia feather in my lap and lays it on the table. “Where did you find it?”
“Out in the garden. Ma … how would you know what form the spirits of our ancestors take?”
Ma’s voice fades into the background, and the answer comes from somewhere else.
Didn’t I tell you, Asha, on that day when I left you? Lying still under the covers of fine white muslin, my breath beating out of me slow and labored. I called you to come and sit beside me and not to be frightened because I would never really leave you … my spirit soul would find a way back to you.
“… If you look right into its eyes they say you can gaze into its soul and tell if it belongs to your clan … Are you OK, Asha?”
I lean against Ma. “Mmm.”
Nanijee would have seen lots of lamagaias, because of where she was born in the mountains, and it makes me feel excited when I think of the one I saw earlier, especially after my memory dream. “Ma, did Nanijee ever talk about lamagaias?”
“She used to tell a story that she once found a lamagaia chick in an abandoned nest high on a mountain ledge when she was looking after the family goats. She watched it for a few days but no parent bird came to feed it, so she took it little tidbits and reared it until it became a fledgling. She said it got big really quickly, even though it was still so young. She loved it and it always came back to her even after it had grown up. That’s what she told me, anyway.”
She rebraids my hair and puts the feather back.
Then she pulls a red silk purse out of a knotted corner of her chunni. “I took my pendant off to keep it safe from Meena.” She holds the purse tenderly. “And I think it’s time you had it … my ma gave it to me when I was twelve and now it’s your turn.”
“I thought they’d taken it.” I feel butterflies fluttering in my stomach and watch Ma as she brings it out.
The pendant is shaped like a teardrop with a curved tip and has a tiny red gemstone at the end. She unclasps the long chain and hangs the necklace she has worn for as long as I can remember around my neck.
I touch its surface, which is like fine gold lace, and wrap my fingers around it.
“Oh, Ma …” I can’t find the right words. “It’s … beautiful … I’m honored to have it and I promise to look after it forever.”
“Your nanijee said to give it to you on your twelfth birthday, but I think you should have it now. It’s been passed on through the generations, always to the eldest daughter. It’s a very special gift, Asha.” Ma holds my face in her hands. “The pendant is an ancient symbol called a buta,” she says. “It comes from the northern Himalayas. That’s where Nanijee’s family came from, where your mountain eyes are from, and where the lamagaias
