This wasn ’ t how I thought my Mama would sound .
“ We … what ?” Papa was swaying on the spot as incoherent babbling poured from his mouth .
“ BRING . HIM . TO . ME . MAMA !” My Mama ’ s voice woke something in Nani . Maybe it
was hearing her only child call her ‘ Mama ’ a er so long , a word so delicious and sweet that
grown women summon the strength to li cars , walk through fires . Be their babies a year or fi y
years old . Be they dead for a decade . The word is an invocation .
Nani rose to her full , broad height . My Nani who was always crouched-over , laden with
the oppression Gypsy blood promises . But today our ancestors blood surged through her , her
child ’ s pleading forcing her spine to stiffen in loyal obedience .
She hooked Papa ’ s arms behind him and carried him toward the darkness .
As soon as we passed the threshold , light appeared at once . Glowing , yellow light .
There were dried flowers hanging from the walls ; lavender , peony and types I had not yet
discovered . Types I was sure didn ’ t exist .
I almost tripped over a step as we made our way downwards into this secret shrine ,
nestled in the hills of fragrant India .
We eventually reached the bottom . A large beautifully decorated cave awaited us . Large
cushions with lace tassels were spread around , two women and a man were sat on a raised
platform in the corner playing the music that had started all of this .