Asha & the Spirit Bird

by Jasbinder Bilan

  ‘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 originate.’

  She leads me to the mirror behind the shrine and the pendant catches golden light from the flickering deeva, illuminating Ma’s face behind me, and in this moment a rhythm sweeps through my body as if I’m connecting to all the daughters in my family who have worn it before me. It’s as if I’m seeing my eyes properly for the first time, mountain-green flecked with fury, and the faces of my ancestors flash across them like stars from the distant past. The roar of a silent war cry thunders through my head – I won’t let the farm be sold, we won’t go to England and leave Papa behind, no matter what Ma says!

  I prop myself up in bed waiting for our signal, and there it is, a flashing light through the small window; Jeevan is already in the mango tree.

  I rush on to the roof terrace, trying to stop my chappala flicking the stone steps as I pick my way down to the garden, duck past the window where Ma sits sewing and slip through the gate. I hurry away from the house, the velvet night filled with the haunting call of owls on the hunt. I reach our big rock at last, sprint past it towards the mango tree, filled with the promise of a plan.

  I throw off my chappala at the base of the tree and slot my bare foot into the first worn hold. Pushing through the rain-drenched leaves, I balance myself on to the branch next to Jeevan.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ I blurt out straight away, my words strangled. I tell him everything that passed between Ma and me in a rush of words, and by the time I finish I’m nearly in tears. ‘And she said if we don’t hear from him by Divali, we’re going to go to England.’

  Jeevan touches the lamagaia feather. ‘What’s this in your hair?’

  ‘Oh . . . ’ For some reason the observation calms me down. ‘It’s nothing, just a feather I liked the look of.’ I don’t tell him what happened in the garden earlier, that I hope the lamagaia is the spirit of my nanijee, in case it breaks the spell I feel every time I think of her. He might say spirits can’t exist . . . he might ask me: How can you prove it? And I know I can’t.

  ‘Jeevan, what do you think’s happened to Papa?’ I revisit all the possibilities I’ve imagined over and over again. ‘There must be a reason why he hasn’t written.’ I force myself to say the words I haven’t dared to speak, as if saying them aloud will release some demon’s wrath and make them come true. ‘Do you think he’s . . . forgotten us?’ My heart speeds up at the final words.

  ‘No. Don’t say that, your papa isn’t like them.’

  We both know about men who go to the city to work but never ever come back.

  ‘I knew something strange was about to happen today,’ I say after a pause. ‘The bell in the cowshed started moving all by itself at the same time those men and that woman, Meena, were down at our farm . . . and I’ve started having dreams again.’ I turn to face him – I want to see how he’ll react to what I have to say.

  ‘You know how Nanijee thought I could see things that others can’t?’ I start slowly. ‘Well, last night I dreamt I was walking through the High Himalayas. It was so cold and snowy and I met an old woman. She let me warm myself by her fire.’ I look down at my palms. ‘She said I had a message in my lines.’

  I watch Jeevan’s face closely before the moon disappears behind a cloud and we’re pitched into darkness. But when he speaks again I can see that he’s not taking me seriously at all. ‘It’s just a dream, Asha,’ he laughs. ‘All sorts of weird things happen in dreams.’

  ‘Do you think I’m making it up?’ My cheeks simmer with hot indignation.

  ‘Calm down.’

  ‘You never believe me!’

  ‘It’s just . . . I can’t see these things with my actual eyes, can I? Anyway, the really important thing now is to find out about your papa.’

  The moon re-emerges, casting shadowy leaf patterns over Jeevan’s arms, and for the first time I notice they’ve suddenly got as hairy as the boys in the upper school.

  ‘Look, Ma gave me Nanijee’s pendant today,’ I say, pulling it out to show him. ‘She said it was a special gift.’

  ‘Your ma must really trust you.’ He examines it closely, and his voice softens. ‘Maybe only someone special can wear such a gift.’

  I’m glad the moon is half hidden behind the clouds so Jeevan can’t see me blushing.

  After a few moments he speaks again.

  ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe your dreams are guiding you in some way.’ Jeevan picks a wide mango leaf and begins to crush it, releasing a mouth-watering sweet scent. ‘Even if it’s just your instincts, a kind of psychology.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ I stare up at the sky through the leaves.

  ‘What do you think?’ asks Jeevan.

  I try to order my jumbled thoughts. ‘Ma says that now I’m nearly twelve I have to start working things out for myself . . . I think the dreams are guiding me, but towards what? I need to focus.’

  A hushed silence falls inside the mango tree while we both think, the soft raindrops soothing my racing mind.

  Eventually, Jeevan speaks. ‘You know the lonely house at the furthest end of the village?’

  A chill makes the hairs on my arm stand up. ‘The witch’s house?’

  Jeevan nods. ‘Well, what if your dream is telling you to go and get your palm read? She can definitely do that!’

  I’m surprised at Jeevan’s suggestion. I thought he’d say palm reading is a load of nonsense.

  We climb down from the tree and start the trek up the mountain, taking the long way round to the furthest end of the village and then even further, where there’s only one house for miles and it’s hers.

  The hot autumn wind catches at our ankles as if it’s egging us on, tearing at the leaves in the trees. I can’t help imagining some wild thing stalking our footsteps.

  ‘I don’t know about this . . . people say she spreads curses at night.’ My voice is quiet.

  ‘It’s just superstition, Asha.’

  ‘Then why are we going?’ I whisper. He doesn’t reply.

  ‘Remember that boy Amir in the year above us?’ I say, too jittery to look behind. ‘He said she digs up dead babies’ skulls and uses them to conjure up their spirits.’

  ‘He was only trying to scare you,’ says Jeevan. ‘They’re just stories, that’s all.’

  I press myself closer to Jeevan as we skirt the edge of the mountain, following the moon, then cross my fingers behind my back as the house looms closer and we begin to drop down the hill.

  I push the gate hesitantly, expecting it to be locked, but it swings open with a loud creak to reveal a tumbledown house with a straggly roof of twigs strapped to its beams. It’s tucked into the far corner of a cavernous yard full of eerie black moon shadows. Our torch makes a halo of light ahead of us and we step cautiously towards it, my mouth dry and my stomach churning.

  I can’t believe I’m standing in front of this crumbling wooden door. It’s like papery bone, bleached silvery white by the sun and rain.

  ‘Do you want to go back home?’ I ask, willing him to say yes this time. ‘We can still sprint to the gate, it’s not too late.’

  ‘Let’s get it over with.’ He speaks quickly, his voice shaking. ‘L-let’s hope we find the answers you’re looking for.’

  Was it right to come here knowing that this place might hold dangers?

  A gust of wind billows behind us and a sudden clatter makes me look up towards the doorway. Beaks! They’re strung together through the breath-holes and suspended from a hook hammered into a stone alcove. And dangling by a thin weathered rope is a skull, brimming with a powdery grey ash that floats on to the ground in front of us.


  ‘Let’s knock,’ he says. ‘Before we change our minds.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I say, swallowing my fear and stepping up to the door.

  ‘Use this.’ Jeevan picks up a large stone. ‘In case the witch has put invisible poison on the door.’

  I take the stone and bang loudly. The dull thud echoes into the dark night, cracking the silence of the yard. But nobody comes.

  We wait, my heart thumping in my chest.

  Just when we think no one’s coming, the door flies open and we both leap back in horror.

  Perched in the low doorway is a woman barely taller than me, lighting up the darkness with the stub of a candle, unfathomable musty smells billowing out of the house.

  I stay right beside Jeevan, square my shoulders and try to control the beat, beat, beat of my heart pounding in my ears.

  The woman’s white hair is parted in the middle and twisted into a loose bun, a pointed black and white porcupine quill sticking out of it. She wears a green cotton sari, the loose fabric thrown over her skinny shoulder, the bottom of the fabric the same colour as the ground, as if she’s sprouted from the earth.

  ‘Oh, look who it is,’ she says, flashing a row of crooked teeth like stunted tombstones. ‘It’s the thunder baby and her friend.’

  Only Ma ever calls me that, so how does this old woman know my special name? My stomach folds in on itself and I suddenly wish I’d run back when I still had the chance.

  ‘Chitragupta,’ she says, pointing to herself with a twisted fingernail. ‘So you want me to look at your palm, do you?’

  Have I mentioned my palm? It’s as if she’s already reading my mind, and it sends fear coursing through me.

  ‘Welcome.’ She beckons us into the house.

  ‘No, Asha, let’s not,’ whispers Jeevan. ‘Who knows what’s in there? Let’s make a run for it.’

  ‘No,’ I say, surprising myself. Thinking about Ma’s words, I pull him into the house, even though my nerves are jangling and I’m more frightened than I can ever remember. ‘Come on, Jeevan, we can’t turn back now, it’s the only way I’ll be sure what to do.’

  It’s a hot night but, strangely, Chitragupta has a fire burning in the hearth and something bubbling away in a heavy pot etched with ancient-looking writing.

  We exchange a petrified look, staring with horror towards the pot. I grip Jeevan’s arm, sliding myself as close to him as possible.

  ‘Sit, sit,’ she says, pointing to a tatty woven bench on one side of the fire. She dips a steel cup into the pot and brings it out filled with . . . milky chai; it’s not what I thought at all, but I still can’t drink it.

  ‘Shukriaa,’ I say politely. I hold the cup in my hand, not daring to put it to my lips. Jeevan isn’t drinking his either, just looking down at the floor with his hands firmly clamped around the cup. He concentrates on holding it still, but the chai trembles.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I-I need you to read my lines.’ My words come out slowly, as if I’m still unsure. ‘And tell me what to do.’

  ‘Drink a little chai first,’ she says, challenging us.

  She stares so hard that I’m forced to take the tiniest sugary sip and a strange herbal taste that I don’t recognize clings to my tongue. What have I done? But before I can warn Jeevan, he does the same.

  Chitragupta sits on her stool and gives a beaming smile in the semi-darkness of the room, the candlelight and the fire showing the lines and wrinkles carved into her ghostly pale skin.

  She pulls the porcupine quill from her bun, releasing a tangle of wild white hair, which floats around her face like writhing serpents. ‘Now,’ she says, her voice as crackly as wizened winter leaves crunched underfoot, ‘we are ready to begin.’ She throws back her head, grasps my hands and begins stroking my palms. Her fingers feel like hot metal as she traces the lines I’ve studied over and over again.

  Her voice is changed now. It’s low and cavernous, coming from a place deep inside her. ‘Goddess of the Mountain,’ she says, in a rumbling voice. ‘Reveal to us the sacred path that these friends must follow.’

  She studies my palms, narrowing her eyes. ‘You have a long journey ahead of you . . . I see snowy peaks that go higher and higher.

  ‘You have been called by the Mountain Gods, my daughter. If you want your papa back, you must go and light a deeva at the most northerly temple of the Himalayas at Kasare. This is important, it’s where the Daughter of the Mountain, the Holy River Ganges, starts her journey.’

  A cool breeze fills the room and I hear gushing water, as if it’s pouring out of a rock.

  ‘Remember the story? When Lord Shiva had to slow the Ganges down and he laid his long hair in her way?’

  She lifts my chin and forces me to stare into her eyes. They seem to spit out fire, making a high wall of flames between us. Roaring tigers spring out of the flames, snarling with sharpened white fangs, coming so close that their sour breath warms my skin.

  I’m hotter than the time I had a fever and thought I was being chased by a pack of wolves. She tightens her grip on my hands and my head drops to my chest.

  I feel like I’m in the middle of a dream with my eyes wide open and I can’t believe what I’m seeing, but it’s there as clear as day.

  All around the edge of a magical circle, rows of dark green vines twist into the air. The room is filled with banyan trees, with their long snake-like roots, giant figs dripping from thick stems, blue and yellow Himalayan poppies waving in the gloom.

  I want to know if Jeevan can see these things as well, but it’s like my tongue has gone to sleep and it feels thick and useless.

  ‘The Ganges made a great sacrifice by coming to the earth.’ Chitragupta’s voice whirls into my head. ‘If you want your journey to go well, then you must make a sacrifice too . . . shave your head like a real pilgrim and wear orange and yellow for luck.

  ‘The lamagaias will guide your journey. They are the spirits of your ancestors – they will watch over you.’

  She releases my hands at last.

  ‘Asha, you must go on this journey, your papa is calling you.’

  I blink, and the fire, forest and tigers vanish as suddenly as they appeared, leaving me chilled to the bone, as if I’ve been wandering through wind-torn woodlands and icy mountains for ever. I bring my hands to my mouth and puff warm air into them but they are still frozen. I hold them above the fire, which sends out sparks and crackles like water being thrown into oil.

  Chitragupta jumps off the rickety stool, sticks a long piece of wood into the leaping flames and lights a bunch of incense sticks. Lifting them into the air, she swirls the smoke in white clouds, around both of us.

  The smell of spices mixed with strange animal scents in the small room make me giddy and I have to grip the edge of the stool to stop myself tumbling to the floor.

  ‘You didn’t know if you should come here or not, Asha . . . but it was right. I know you will use your powers for the good of others. Blessings for your journey.’

  ‘Asha.’ Jeevan yanks my arm. ‘Come on!’

  We stumble towards the doorway as she scatters a handful of rose petals behind us.

  ‘May the Gods smile on you, my children,’ she says, stepping outside. ‘I will watch as you go.’

  We sprint away through the yard as fast as we can, away from the house, with the breeze rattling the hanging beaks behind us. We don’t stop until we’re right past her gate, where we clutch each other and let out screams of hysterical high-pitched laughter.

  I can tell Jeevan is properly spooked. ‘Let’s get away from here,’ he says, grabbing my arm. ‘How did she know all those things?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I pant.

  ‘And when her voice changed,’ cries Jeevan.

  ‘I thought we were going to die! It was all so weird . . . like a dream.’ My thoughts tumble over each other. ‘But something’s changed in me, Jeevan. After everything that’s gone on today, the thing that I know in my heart is that it’s up to me to find Pap
a.’ I tilt my head back to look at the stars and feel like the ground is tipping beneath my feet.

  I feel myself drifting, like I’m being tugged back in time by a silver thread.

  You are like the warrior goddess Durga from the ancient texts, the wife of Lord Shiva who rode on a tiger and fought off the demons. Prepare yourself for a journey where the snow can fall deeper than the pines and the frozen mists swirl so thickly you can lose yourself for days . . .

  ‘Asha. Are you OK?’ Jeevan’s voice makes me start. The memory splinters and is gone.

  ‘Yes . . . just feel a little weird,’ I reply, trying to get my thoughts together. ‘I have to focus on how I’m going to find Papa.’

  ‘I’ve got an idea.’ Jeevan sounds excited. ‘We’re going to the market in Sonahaar on Saturday – we’re taking the cart and some cotton to sell. You could hide in it . . . if you’re ready to go so soon?’

  My body tingles with fear and excitement. ‘Yes . . . I think I am ready,’ I say. ‘Especially after everything Chitragupta said.’ I imagine the two of us setting off, through the wild Himalayas to Zandapur, and I sense a faint rhythm from my pendant.

  ‘Papa usually loads the cart and keeps it below the shelter out of the rain. You could get under the covers once it’s dark and in the morning I’ll be there, driving the bullocks with Papa, making sure you stay safe.’

  ‘And you know all the names of the stars, so if we have to travel by night you’ll know exactly how to navigate.’ It’s all making sense and falling into place.

  Jeevan puffs up, taking control again. ‘And once Papa’s busy we’ll find the train station and get going on our journey.’ He’s speaking quickly, like he can’t wait to get started.

  ‘We can take the map of India that Papa left me,’ I say. ‘And mark the trail on it so we know exactly where to go.’

  ‘We’ll get it all sorted,’ says Jeevan, rushing forward. ‘But let’s hurry. It’s getting late, and you know we’ve got old Mrs Malhotra for Maths tomorrow.’