Chapter One

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Patricia McCormick

FESTIVAL OF LIGHTS

On the first day of the festival, we honour the crows. We put out offerings of rice because crows are the messengers for the lord of death.

On the second day, we honour the dogs. We dot their foreheads with red powder and place marigold garlands around their necks because dogs are the guides to the land of the dead.

And on the third day, we clean our homes top to bottom. We put out dozens of tiny oil lamps at dusk to welcome the goddess Lakshmi, my namesake, who will circle the earth and bestow wealth and blessings on the humble and the pure.

Our family has no grain to spare for the crows and nothing for the stray dogs, save a kick from my stepfather’s sandal.

Still, Ama says we must prepare for Lakshmi’s arrival. Ama sweeps every corner of our hut and sets the blankets out to air. Then she twists tiny bits of rag into wicks and places them in shallow clay saucers, each with a drop of oil.

When my chores are done, I sit out in the sun in front of our hut and string a necklace of marigolds. We have no dog, so I make the garland for Tali. But when I go to place the wreath over her head, she shrinks away. I scratch the place between her ears just the way she likes. Then, as her head droops with contentment, I slip the garland around her neck.

She sniffs and sneezes and shakes her head from side to side. Then she bends low, her ear to the ground, and tries to wriggle out of it. Finally, she gets to her feet, and with one grand, impatient toss of her head, she throws the garland in the dirt. And eats it.

Ama comes by and smiles. ‘That goat,’ she says. ‘Perhaps she is not so silly after all.’

AN AUSPICIOUS NIGHT

A thousand stars have fallen to earth.

That, at least, is how it looks to me as I sit outside our hut and look down the mountainside at all the houses below, each windowsill and doorway adorned with tiny lanterns, lighting the way for the goddess Lakshmi.

‘This is an auspicious night,’ says Ama. Her brisk and steady hand flies through my hair as she twines the strands into braids. ‘The goddess Lakshmi will see our lights and bring us good fortune.’

My stepfather comes out of the hut, wearing his kingly hat and his big-shoulders coat. He pats his chest, and I see Ama’s money pouch around his neck.

‘This,’ he says, ‘is an auspicious night. This is the night when the goddess favours gamblers.’

And because it is my favourite night of the year, the festival of my namesake, I let myself believe him.

AT THE FESTIVAL

Ama and I walk down to the village, my little brother riding on her back. As we draw near the bonfire, Ama presses a coin into my palm. ‘Run off and buy yourself a sweet cake,’ she says, ‘like the other children.’

I tell her I’m not a child anymore. I tell her not to waste her money. But she insists.

‘Tonight,’ she says, ‘you are a child.’

POSSIBILITY

As I stand before the bonfire, licking the last of the sweet-cake crumbs from my fingers, a city woman comes and stands next to me. She is wearing a dress of yellow cloud fabric, a hundred silver bangles on her wrists and ankles. She smells of amber and night flowers.

‘Where I live,’ she says, ‘the girls have sweet cakes every day.’

This delicate stranger, it seems, is speaking to me.

I steal a sideways look at her.

She smiles, drawing her shawl to her lips with the dignity of a queen.

I, too, draw my shawl to my face, see that I have the callused hands of a farm girl, and stuff them in the pockets of my homespun skirt.

‘City girls have pretty dresses,’ she says from behind her yellow cloud. ‘And fancy baubles. They eat oranges, dates and mangoes every day. It is the easy life.’

‘You?’ I say, my voice as tiny as a bug’s. ‘You’re a maid?’

The city woman laughs, still hiding her mouth with the hem of her shawl, but she does not answer.

‘Would you like to come to the city with me?’ she says. ‘I will be your aunty.’

I nod yes-no-yes-no and run back to Ama, afraid to tell her about this new aunty who smells of amber and jasmine and possibility.