1850
When a woman celebrates her sixteenth birthday in Barwa Sagar, it’s nearly always with a special dinner she shares with her husband and children. Her father-in-law’s house is decorated with flowers, and her husband might buy her a small gift—perhaps a new comb or a very special sari. Since I had no father-in-law’s house to decorate with roses, I celebrated my sixteenth year by giving a present instead of receiving one.
Anu waited on my bed while I fetched a small package wrapped in cloth, and when I took it from the basket where I’d hidden it several weeks before, her dark eyes went big. She was a seven-year-old miniature of our mother, I realized. “For you,” I said, holding out the package.
She felt the edges of the gift. “A diary?” she guessed. I had taught her to read and write when she turned six. “Like yours?”
“Open it.”
She unwrapped the cloth and took out a book. “It is a diary!”
I shook my head. “Look inside.”
My sister’s eyes grew red and weepy as soon as she did. The pages were filled with every memory I had of our mother. Good ones, bad ones, the times when we sat together in a quiet place and she sang ragas to Lord Shiva. “Thank you, Sita. Thank you!” Anu hugged me as tightly as she could. “But why? It’s your birthday today.”
“Because I know you would make Maa-ji very proud. And I want you to know her.”
“When you pass the trial,” Anu said suddenly, “will you come back here to visit me?”
“Of course. We’ll never be apart for long.” If a trial is ever called, I thought.
“Is that a promise?” She looked up at me with our mother’s eyes.
“Yes. And now it’s time for puja.”
I led her into our puja room and I let her ring the bell, so the gods would know we were there. Then we knelt before the images of Durga and Ganesh and I recited the Durga mantra. We touched the gods’ feet with our right hands, then touched our foreheads with the same fingers. Finally, I lit two sticks of incense and prayed that the day would go smoothly for us, and as always, that a trial would be called for soon.
A few days later, while I was practicing archery with my father, the gods answered my prayer. Shivaji arrived in our courtyard with the unbelievable news. “The rani has retired one of her Durgavasi,” he said. “There’s going to be a trial in twelve months.”
“I’ll be seventeen. I won’t even have to lie!”
Shivaji was about to reply when I heard Anu cry, “Sita!” She came running over to join us. “There’s a bird on the ground and his wing is broken!” We walked over to where she pointed and saw a small bulbul with dark feathers and bright red cheeks nursing a broken wing by keeping it close to its tiny body. Anu reached down and scooped the bird into her hands. “Can it be fixed? Does anyone know how to help him?”
Warring emotions crossed Shivaji’s face—the desire to begin our lesson, and the desire to help. “My youngest son might be able to mend it. He has a gift for healing. Sometimes he visits the animal hospital to be of service.”
While Shivaji returned with his son, I fetched my dupatta and drew it over my head, covering my hair with the light scarf women wear around their necks.
“You remember Ishan?” Shivaji said as an introduction.
The boy next to him smiled shyly. I’d heard he’d recently celebrated his fourteenth birthday, but he was slight for his age, the youngest and smallest of his brothers. He bent to touch Father’s foot with his right hand, then immediately touched his third eye and heart. This is a typical greeting in India, especially if a younger person has not seen an elder in some time.
“Ishan?” Grandmother said from the door. She hurried out into the courtyard and Anu instinctually stepped closer to me. “Just look at him!” Grandmother said, as if she was seeing a wondrous animal for the first time. “Exactly like his father. Tall and handsome.”
In reality, he was none of these, but to watch Grandmother you might actually believe it. Grandmother was like an opal. You could never be sure which colors were really there, and which were just tricks of the light.
“The gods have always blessed you, Shivaji. Three sons, and not a single daughter.”
“Perhaps that’s why I feel so attached to your grandchildren,” he said. “They are the little girls I never had.”
I never felt more grateful to our neighbor than I did in that moment.
But even with Father standing beside her, Grandmother didn’t bother to hide her disgust. “I keep reminding Nihal that sons make up a house’s worth. He must remarry, or he’ll be fated to rot here with only daughters as heirs. Aren’t I right?”