Ranee took a train with her parents and siblings from their hometown and arrived at nightfall. Staying with friends, they all slept in one room on the floor. Ranee curled up next to one of her brothers for warmth. The next morning, her mother woke them while it was still dark to get dressed. They packed naan and chevda—a mix of spicy rice flakes, lentils, and nuts—for the trek. Ranee was shocked the first time she saw chevda being sold as Hot Mix in grocery stores in America.
The sun was just rising over the mountain. Even from far below, Ranee could hear the bells tolling and smell the incense and roses wafting down the grassy hill. Hundreds of Dalits, untouchables, working in pairs and dressed in loincloths, carried those too old or feeble on dolis, swing chairs, up the stairs. After about an hour of climbing steps in the heat, Ranee yearned for the luxury. When she innocently asked her mother if she could sit in one for the rest of the journey, her mother laughed and told her it cost a thousand rupees per person. They were not about to spend that money on her because she was tired.
Chastised, Ranee continued climbing with her brothers and sisters. Along the way, they stopped to drink the fresh coconut water sold at regular intervals. After punching a hole through the hard skin, they tipped the coconut and let the water drip into their mouths. Afterward, Ranee’s dad broke it open so they could feast on the milky white meat inside.
The memory of the temples that awaited them still takes Ranee’s breath away. Carved from solid stone with marble pillars, the open temple was filled to capacity with well-wishers. From every walk of life, people stood side by side in saris and salwar kameezes, gently swaying to the songs sung by the gurus. The lyrics paid tribute to the marble statues depicting the various gods the temple enshrined. Lord Shiva, Goddess Parvati, their son Ganesha, and his daughters Lakshmi and Sarasvati were among the dozens of life-size figures.
The pillars served as the only enclosure, leaving the wall-less temple open to the warm breeze from nature. Ranee closed her eyes, letting the music and the wind wash over, cleansing her innocent soul. In that moment, Ranee was one with a being she had never met. Loved in a manner she had never known, and assured of her life in a way that no matter how hard she tried, she could never be certain of again. She made a promise to herself that day, one that haunted her since, to always remember the message conveyed—the world was waiting for her to live.
Ranee arrives at the gathering of the Indian community on time. A family has requested a puja—often commissioned for auspicious occasions—to celebrate the building of their new house. In a puja, the gurus spend an entire day in prayer and then call friends and loved ones of the family to join in to bless the occasion. Ranee has attended hundreds of them over the years. The pujas also serve as an excuse to socialize and enjoy dinner together while the children play. It is common in the community to meet every weekend for dinner, to play cards, or to watch a movie at the house. Any excuse to spend time and to make the memories of loved ones left behind in India less stinging. A surrogate family built by those who came from the same homeland.
“Ranee!” Nita, the host and a good friend, comes over immediately after spotting her. “How are you?”
“I am well.” Ranee slips off her shoes at the entrance of the celebration. The temples in India required everyone to leave their shoes outside before entering; people believed that they could feel Earth’s vibration through the structure’s floor, transmitted via the feet. The practice was centuries old. They followed the ritual in their homes too, since nearly every Indian had some form of a shrine within the house. “How are you?”
“I think of you every day.” Nita offers her a hug. “I stopped by to visit Brent last week. My heart is breaking for you, my friend.”
“Every day I pray,” Ranee says, dropping her head, never having revealed their secret to anyone. “But God does not always hear our prayers.”
“No,” Nita agrees. A number of women join them. “He is mysterious in his ways.”