Jeevan’s fallen asleep leaning into the corner, where the seat meets the window. I take off my long chuni 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 towards 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 spiralling 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 taxi. 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 towards the mountain, passing a large handmade sign written in English and Punjabi.
Elephant Rides
Hathi chootay
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, towards 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 towards 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 towards 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 like Rama and Sita.’
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 grey skin of the elephant. Pulling on the neatly woven reins, he settles himself firmly on the seat, 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 towards Jeevan and slip my hand into his. He hauls me up . . . have I got lighter or has he got 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 moustache 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 chuni 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 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 tha
t 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 learnt to trust myself.
Mona lifts up her trunk and blows a heralding trumpet. As she quietens and continues walking, another sound drifts towards 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 towards our house.
‘Oi,’ I shout at the top of my voice. ‘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 towards the crowd, followed closely by Papa and Jeevan. I see now that Rohan and Roopa are safe, standing with Jeevan’s parents.
Meena steps towards 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 further.’ 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 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 towards 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 me to her. ‘I was so worried. I didn’t know if I would ever see you— What have you done to your hair?’
‘Don’t be cross, Ma,’ I say. ‘I brought Papa home.’
‘Oh, Asha.’ Ma’s tears fall on to my head. ‘Asha . . . you’re home at last.’
She wraps me in her special blue sari, embroidered with peacocks.
Papa’s right behind me and hurls his arms around us all. ‘I wish I could stay home for ever,’ he says. And a little bit of my happiness crumbles when I remember that he’s used all his money on repaying the loan.
‘Will you have to go back to Zandapur?’ I whisper, just to him.
‘We shouldn’t think about that now,’ he replies.
Rohan and Roopa hold me round the waist. ‘We missed you,’ they both say.
‘We didn’t know if you’d come back,’ says Rohan.
‘Your hair’s gone,’ says Roopa.
Ma puts the marigolds she’s had looped on her arm over Papa’s head, burying her face into his shoulder, as he holds her even closer. ‘What happened, Ashi? How did you find him? Your telegram said so little.’
Jeevan and I share a glance and start to tell our story.
Our voices drift into the evening sky like clouds of incense. The mooing cows join in, and so do the rushing waters of the Ganges, the sweet chirruping of the rosefinches, the rhythm from my pendant and the far-off cry of my nanijee and all the daughters from our family, raising their spirits from the past.
It’s the song of the mountain and it echoes through our valley – a blessing joining us all together.
Family is the most important thing in the whole world and now that we’re together again, I won’t let anything separate us.
Like every Divali, there’s no moon tonight, and the path leading to our house is lit with flickering deevay, just like the paintings from the ancient texts.
We head inside as the night grows chilly, but I notice something through the back door. ‘Ma, Papa, look!’ The well is lit up as brightly as a shrine and my nanijee is perched on the very edge of the crumbling wall. I go back outside and walk towards her.
‘This is where I first saw you, wasn’t it?’ I close my eyes and the rhythm from my pendant buzzes through my bones, awakening the place deep in my spirit where my magical powers are born, and I move closer to the well.
Everyone gathers round, staring at my spirit bird in disbelief and admiration. Ma inches closer to her and stretches out a shaky hand.
‘I think Nanijee would like it if you touched her,’ I say.
‘M-maybe later,’ she says, drawing her hand back.
‘It’s OK, Ma.’ I hitch up my lengha, tucking the fabric into the waistband and stand on the wall beside my nanijee. She walks around the edge of the well, and I’m convinced she’s trying to tell me something.
‘I’m going down there.’
Ma jumps on to the wall too and grabs me by the arm. ‘Stop, Asha!’
Nanijee flies up and lands on my shoulder, flapping her wings.
‘Asha knows what she’s doing,’ cries Jeevan. ‘She’s amazing.’
I shoot him a smile. ‘I’m trusting myself, Ma – now you need to trust me too . . . like Nanijee does.’
My nanijee jumps off my shoulder, hops towards the opening and peers down, pecking at the inside of the well.
‘I think your spirit bird would go down with you if she could,’ says Jeevan. ‘But of course . . .’
‘Her wingspan’s too wide to get out,’ we both finish together, laughing.
‘Don’t be silly, Asha,’ says Rohan. ‘You can’t go down there, you’ll fall into the water.’
I squeeze his hand. ‘It’s OK . . . I’m used to climbing and there are footholds in the wall.’
‘Jeevan’s right,’ says Papa, putting his arm around Ma. ‘Let her go.’
‘Paras!’ she says, twisting her hands. ‘We’ve always told them to stay right away from the well and now – oh – I can’t believe you’re telling her to go into it . . . are you crazy?’
My spirit bird begins flapping her wings hysterically.
‘Ma, I’m going.’
‘I can see that . . . but I’m staying right here.’ She stays close by the opening, her eyes wild with fear.
Nanijee perches next to her and makes a clucking sound.
I grip the rim and lower myself into the darkness of the well. The sides feel damp and slimy as I search for a foothold. ‘Shine a deeva down here,’ I call, my strong voice rising to the surface. There’s a brick to one side of my foot and I slide on to it, trying to keep my balance.
The golden light from above flits like fireflies as it illuminates the shadows in the well, and then I spot something. A few inches below is a wide gap in the wall’s surface, with a narrow ledge just below. I carefully drop down to th
e ledge to take a better look. I reach my hand deep inside the gap and I feel something hard. I run my fingers along its smooth edges.
‘Have you found something?’ calls Jeevan.
‘Yes,’ I reply, staring up at their faces, lit by the flickering light. Butterflies dance in my stomach as I heave the object out.
It’s a box wrapped in a muddied cloth. ‘Get ready, Papa . . . it’s heavy.’
I press the box, which is at least as long as my forearm, tight to my chest, hold myself firm on the bricks and raise it as high as I can above my head, but Papa’s hands are still too far away.
‘I can’t quite reach it, Asha, and there’s not enough room to climb in.’
‘Papa, it’s really heavy,’ I pant, my legs trembling. ‘I . . . I can’t hold it for much longer.’
‘I’ll grab your legs,’ says Jeevan’s papa, ‘so you can lean in further.’
‘Someone’s going to get hurt,’ cries Ma. ‘Just get Asha out.’
‘Here, Papa.’ I stretch as much as I can, pushing hard against the wet walls.
Papa’s hands grasp the box and he hoists it up out of the depths of the well. I let out a hot breath of relief.
‘Come up quickly, so we can see what it is,’ says Jeevan, his face full of excitement.
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 further 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 sheesham 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 jewellery, 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.
Asha & the Spirit Bird Page 16