Asha & the Spirit Bird

by Jasbinder Bilan

  ‘Slow down! You’re always in such a rush.’

  ‘Sorry, Asha.’ He tugs my sleeve. ‘I know this is important.’

  ‘No . . . you’re right. We can’t waste a minute. Who knows what’s happened to Papa. We’ll do the rituals tonight and be ready for Zandapur tomorrow.’ My heart gives a patter.

  ‘The source of the Ganges must be over there,’ whispers Jeevan, looking towards a line of people that snakes its way along one side of the hall.

  We get behind a man wearing nothing but a dhoti, the length of bright orange fabric wrapped around his waist and twisted through his legs to make a typical yogi’s outfit.

  ‘He must be freezing . . . look at his hair!’ I say.

  It falls all the way down to the floor in long matted locks.

  ‘I bet he’s spent all his life visiting temples,’ says Jeevan, beaming from ear to ear. ‘I wouldn’t fancy brushing that, though!’

  I nudge Jeevan. ‘Shhh . . .’

  There’s a priest at the head of the queue, wearing orange flowing robes that skim the ground. He dips his fingers into a brass bowl, flicking holy water over the milling crowds. ‘Blessings . . . blessings,’ he calls. ‘Blessings to all the pilgrims who’ve made this journey.’ He hurls rose and marigold petals into the air. ‘The Holy Ganges honours her visitors.’

  The sound of the roaring water becomes louder as we move closer to the front of the queue.

  ‘I’m going to say prayers for my brother as well as my ma and papa,’ says Jeevan.

  ‘I think he’d really like that.’

  We link arms and together we approach the exact spot where the Ganges is born.

  ‘Welcome,’ says the priest, giving us a smile that makes his eyes almost disappear. ‘Where are your parents?’

  ‘We’ve travelled here together,’ says Jeevan. ‘And we’re on our way to Zandapur, to find Asha’s papa.’

  ‘Yes . . . I’m Asha, and this is Jeevan.’

  ‘And we’re from Moormanali,’ he says.

  ‘So, Jeevan and Asha.’ The priest picks up a gleaming silver bowl, dips his finger into it and paints thick red dye between my eyebrows and then Jeevan’s. ‘Here’s your red pilgrim’s mark, now everyone will know what you’ve done and how far you’ve been.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I bow my head, breathing deeply, and move further forward towards the source.

  At last we’re right at the very spot where the River Ganges springs from a rose-coloured rock and cascades into a huge marble edged pool. There are pilgrims bathing right below the opening, which is about five times as wide as my outstretched arms.

  The water splashes everywhere, sending fine lacy mist travelling up into the air. ‘Look how fierce it is,’ I say, mesmerized.

  ‘Wow . . . how do you think they built this temple all the way up here?’ asks Jeevan. ‘All I’d need is a boat and the water could take me straight into the whole of India.’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ I giggle. ‘It’d take for ever to get round the whole of India . . . shall we do our offerings now?’

  I place the flower garland that Nahul’s little sister Teenu gave me on the floor and take a space next to Jeevan beside the pool.

  I slip my hand into the bundle and search for the plait I cut off in Sonahaar, and carried all the way especially for this moment. I hold it coiled in my palm, ready to offer it up.

  I close my eyes and meditate on my offering for the Holy River Ganges, The Daughter of the Mountain.

  I clasp the pendant to my chest and try to connect with the spirit of my nanijee and all the daughters in my family who’ve ever worn the necklace before me. I feel the ancient rhythms spanning across time, reaching out to me, as if I could almost touch them with my fingertips.

  Please, Daughter of the Mountain, I bring this offering to you as I have seen in my visions.

  I have come to honour you,

  Just as you came to earth to help us in the past.

  Will you come to my aid now?

  Lead me to Papa,

  Please let my family be reunited.

  Give blessings to all those who have helped me,

  Above all for my friend Jeevan . . . I especially thank you for saving his life, without his help I could never have made this journey,

  And for my dear nanijee and all the daughters of my family.

  I place my feet at the edge of the pool, my toes curled round the smooth marble rim, and jump in, releasing my plait into the icy water. The holy water covers me completely, swallowing me up in its swirls of cascading froth, my lungs gripped by iron fingers, the freezing shock sucking away my breath.

  The water parts as I burst back to the surface just in time to see my dark plait of hair disappear through the channel and make its way outside, where the Holy River Ganges – filled with snowmelt and monsoon storms – will carry it down the mountainside.

  Cold drops of water bead and drip over my head and on to my face. I’m standing shoulder-deep in the pool, my teeth chattering. ‘Jeevan . . . can you pass me the deeva? Be careful not to let it go out.’

  He takes the clay deeva in the palm of his hand and slowly holds it towards me.

  I lean across to the garland, pluck a white flower, place it in the deeva, and float it in the pool, pressing my palms together to finish the ritual.

  ‘It’s your turn now.’ I lift myself out and sit on the edge, my breath rising and falling in time to my dancing heart.

  Jeevan gives a worried smile. ‘Do you think my ma will be proud of me?’

  ‘Of course she will, Jeevan – she’ll be amazed by what you’ve done . . . I promise.’

  ‘Here goes then . . . bath time!’ Jeevan jumps into the pool, vanishing beneath the bubbling water for a few moments, then stands in the water, closes his eyes and says his prayers.

  As my thoughts drift to Papa in Zandapur then to Ma back home, I feel warm, familiar hands on my shoulders . . .

  Asha, Asha, Asha my love,

  The thunder brought you,

  For me to love.

  Do you remember how you asked me to sing this over and over again so you wouldn’t have to go back to the dreams of past lives that woke you screaming in the middle of the night?

  I held you close and you traced the bumpy veins in my old wrinkled hands, telling me they were the rivers flowing down to the sea.

  I feel a blanket wrapped around me and everything is perfect, like the warmth of sunshine when your eyelids are closed. My pendant rocks . . .

  Nanijee?

  I look around, scanning the hall for the soft folds of her embroidered sari where I used to hide, her song still echoing in my head, but there’s no one there.

  Jeevan gets out of the water and sits beside me. ‘It’s so cold,’ he says, shivering, tying his hair back into the topknot. Little strands have come loose and stick to his face. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asks.

  ‘S-something strange just happened. I think my nanijee was here.’ I stare back into the pool.

  ‘Really?’

  I blink and take a deep breath. ‘Maybe everything will turn out right after all.’ I pull an edge of blanket and tuck it round his shoulder. ‘She put this on me, I was shivering.’

  ‘It was probably the priest.’

  ‘Why do you never believe me?’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t believe you.’ He tightens the blanket. ‘We’re just different . . . It would be boring if we were all the same, wouldn’t it?’ He nudges me. ‘I’m Mr Science, remember?’

  ‘Yeah, exactly.’

  I take out the mango stone I planted on our first night away from home and place it beside me as I listen to the pilgrims chanting. The golden glow of all the deevay shimmering in the water makes everything look magical.

  I bend towards the pot, looking for any sign of a shoot, but the soil is still bare. ‘Maybe the holy water will make you grow.’ I scoop a palmful of the cold Ganges water and sprinkle it over the soil, patting it with my fingers. ‘There . . . grow, little man
go, grow for Papa.’ I blink my eyes closed and carry on listening to the sounds of the temple, thinking about Nanijee and all my ancestors, feeling the rhythms pulling me away into their spirit world.

  Jeevan touches my shoulder and I come back with a start.

  ‘Shall we get changed? I’m frozen.’

  I pick up the mango pot, nestling it between my hands, and sense a warmth passing through the damp banana leaf. I give it a final sprinkle, wrinkling my nose in pleasure as the smell of the damp earth reminds me of early morning, walking barefoot with Papa on the grazing pastures.

  Jeevan pulls me to my feet. ‘Hurry up . . . you look like you’ve been sleeping. I’m starving.’

  I’m still in a daze as we walk towards a doorway and are greeted by smells of spiced dhal and freshly baked naan. ‘This way,’ calls a woman. ‘Towels are on the side and then you can sit for food over there.’

  Once we’re dry we squeeze between the others and sit cross-legged, eating our food from shiny thalia.

  My heart feels like it is full of singing birds that will burst into the room at any moment, filling the temple with happiness.

  I look up towards a small set of windows with carvings of Lord Shiva’s story all around them at the very top of the large hall. Through one of them I can see the tiniest slice of moon hanging in the darkness. It shines on to the mango pot, bathing it in its silvered light.

  ‘Jeevan, look! When we started our journey the moon was full and now it’s starting out again . . . like us.’

  ‘That means we’ve been away from Moormanali for two whole weeks,’ he replies, scooping rice into his mouth. ‘It feels like months, though.’ He shifts his gaze down to my side. ‘So your mango stone’s sprouted, then.’

  ‘What?’ I pick up the stone, which a moment ago had nothing growing from it, and lift it to the light. ‘That’s amazing! It must have been the holy water and all my praying that made it happen.’ It has a strong green shoot about the size of my finger and two tender fresh leaves either side.

  ‘Plants store up their energy and then, when the conditions are right, they spring into life,’ Jeevan says, stuffing more food into his mouth.

  ‘No, Jeevan! It was the praying and the water and my nanijee that’s made it grow so quickly.’ I can feel a broad grin spreading across my face. ‘It’s sprouted and that’s all that matters.’

  I put the seedling back into the moonlight, its shadow stretching across the marble floor.

  ‘We’ll leave for Zandapur tomorrow. And just think, it’s four whole weeks till Divali and probably only a few days before we find Papa and bring him home.’

  ‘That will be amazing, won’t it?’ says Jeevan. ‘Just imagine the look on your ma’s face when you appear back in Moormanali with your papa by your side!’

  Early the next the morning, we collect our things and kneel to say one last prayer before setting off for Zandapur. I try to gather my thoughts into neat little piles but my mind keeps skipping from one thing to another then back to Moormanali. Has Ma written back to Uncle Neel yet? My stomach clenches . . . I must hurry and find Papa.

  We join a group of pilgrims and walk away from the temple, flicking glances towards the bushy pine trees.

  ‘We can’t believe you came all this way by yourselves,’ says a woman wrapped in a pink woollen shawl. ‘It takes some people their whole lives to make a trip to this temple, and you’ve done it already.’

  ‘The spirit of my nanijee makes me strong,’ I say.

  ‘But you had to decide to come,’ says Jeevan.

  ‘Yes . . . Ma said I have to work out what I believe for myself, and that’s exactly what I did . . . and you came with me. So maybe it’s a mixture of things.’

  The woman with the shawl laughs. ‘Who knows whether our ancestors are really with us. But they do say that some people can feel their presence.’

  We carry on walking along the path, listening to the birds of prey sending out their echoing calls from way up in the sky. I keep looking around, expecting to see my spirit bird again and thinking about Nanijee, feeling stronger and more determined to find Papa and bring him home before Meena and her thugs return.

  ‘Asha?’ says Jeevan. ‘Are you scared about what we might find in the city?’

  I tug at the ties to my hood. ‘Part of me is worried about what we’ll find once we get there . . . I mean, why he hasn’t written?’ And what if the truth is even harder than not knowing?

  Jeevan moves closer. ‘We won’t know anything until we find him . . . and we can’t change what’s happened. But when he sees what you’ve done and how far you’ve come, he’ll think you’re the most courageous daughter he could ever wish for . . . like Sita with her bow and arrow, or Durga fighting off the demons!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. I mean, look at all the hard stuff we’ve done.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’ I look towards the dark outline of the pines against the morning sun. ‘It’s not over yet, though. We still have to get down the mountain safely,’ I say, the memory of what happened in the forest gripping my throat.

  It’s early afternoon by the time we get to the road and it feels strange to be surrounded by buses and cars again after the peacefulness of the temple.

  ‘Let’s share a drink.’ I walk over to one of the stalls. ‘We’ve haven’t spent much money and Zandapur’s not far now, so I think we’ll have enough.’

  ‘Asha . . . postcards. Let’s send another one home.’

  I count my coins. ‘OK . . . what about this one of the temple?’ I pick it up and pay.

  We write the postcard quickly and slip it into the postbox. As we turn away with our drinks I catch sight of something that turns my mouth dry and sets my heart pounding.

  ‘Jeevan, look at that poster!’

  MISSING

  12-YEAR-OLD JEEVAN SINGH GILL AND

  11-YEAR-OLD ASHA KUMAR

  IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION

  CONTACT THE POLICE

  He splutters his drink on the ground. ‘Keep your head down.’

  I study the small poster. ‘These photos don’t look anything like us.’

  ‘Well, that boy recognized you.’ He pulls the poster off the tree and stuffs it into his pocket. ‘Now that we’re getting closer to Zandapur there will be more police everywhere.’

  One of the pilgrims calls us over. ‘That blue bus will take you right into Zandapur,’ she says, pointing to one that’s already rammed with people. ‘Look after each other and be careful in the city – it’s full of all sorts of people, not all of them good.’

  ‘We will.’

  My insides are starting to twist and turn as I climb on to the crowded bus, pulling my hood up to hide my face.

  ‘Go there,’ says Jeevan, pointing to a space right at the back.

  The bus begins to hum and shake as the driver turns the engine. A cold breeze blows in through the open door and we pull out of the small tangle of stalls and shops, before turning at a big sign that says ‘Zandapur’.

  It doesn’t take long before we’re on a road that twists dangerously down steep rocky gorges. There are views for miles of wooded valleys full of dark pines and crashing waterfalls.

  ‘Once we get to Zandapur, we need to be very careful who we trust. Just imagine if I could control my dream visions – I’d be able to see the faces of all the evil people in the city and keep us safe.’

  ‘Now that would be handy.’ Jeevan snuggles deeper into his seat. ‘Asha, how do you know whether to believe something you dream about?’

  ‘It’s strange.’ I look out of the window. ‘Some dreams are really clear, like the one about the journey to find Papa. I try to work them out.’

  ‘So they’re a bit like a puzzle.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you could say that.’ I think about Nanijee and what I felt at the temple. ‘And then there are some things that you just can’t explain . . . like the bell moving all by itself in the cowshed before Meena and those men came.’

&
nbsp; ‘If you really tried,’ says Jeevan, ‘maybe you could actually make stuff happen . . . like maybe you could force that man to give me his paratha.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Jeevan. I wish I could control things,’ I say, yawning. ‘But for now I think I’m too tired.’

  The next time I open my eyes, there are cars, cows and people everywhere. Outside, the light is fading, turning into evening. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘We’re in Zandapur,’ says Jeevan. ‘Come on, sleepyhead,’ he laughs. ‘You look like you’re still dreaming.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say slowly, getting out of the seat. ‘Something was just about to happen . . . but everything disappeared.’ I follow him down the aisle, trying to remember. ‘There were children . . . lots and lots of—’

  ‘Don’t worry about the dream now,’ Jeevan interrupts me, and we step into the busy bus station full of people laughing, talking, shouting. There are so many signs and everyone’s moving so quickly.

  Jeevan grabs hold of my arm, pulls me back on to the pavement just before a bus spewing smoke out of the back rattles by. ‘This isn’t the village,’ he says. ‘We’ve got to have our wits about us, that bus nearly squashed you.’

  I take a deep breath and concentrate.

  ‘Which way is the right way –’ Jeevan looks confused – ‘when we don’t know where we’re going?’

  ‘I do know where we’re going,’ I say. ‘Connaught Place. And I want to get there as soon as I can.’ We’re here at last, so close to Papa, and I let my heart give a little leap as I imagine seeing him again, but a knot of fear follows close behind – I’ll soon find out why he stopped writing.

  A youngish man is looking at the timetable, chewing gum. He spits on the floor and spins round to face us. ‘Looking for somewhere to stay? My uncle’s got a hotel near here. Cheap. Good for boys like you.’

  I lower my voice. ‘We’re meeting my papa here. He’s coming any minute.’

  The man looks us up and down and kicks a plastic cup. ‘Are you sure?’ he asks, dialling a number before putting a small phone to his ear. ‘Very cheap.’

  ‘We’re sure.’ I pull Jeevan away. ‘We’ll ask someone else in a minute,’ I whisper. ‘He was really creepy.’