We have been celebrating for days. Before the village starts coming in for the rituals of the day, I cook for the family and feed myself. And then start bigger fires, so we don’t run out of food for the neighbors. In some families, I have heard they spend more than they have, preparing feasts, looking good. Matha bojay rakha. To keep their heads high.
We cannot be bothered. There are only three of us in the family, and the new one I’ll be going to. It keeps its name, its head high. But their misfortunes are well known. Why they sent for me, I don’t know. I will miss my plants, and the mountains. …But it will be one less mouth to feed.
Today, is the final day. Baba gave me a small chest, and I was surprised. I thought I had seen all the baubles from Mother and Grandmothers. This was much bigger. Huge earrings, the kind that go into your hair, intricate bangles, anklets, even a toe ring. First time seeing so much gold in one place. I considered asking why we hadn’t sold it for better land, but it wouldn’t go down well.
I’ve already packed my things. Not much, a few saris, an old kite, seedlings, my mothers’ conch.
When the man comes, I know to be quiet and coy. He is after all, the only son left. He had six brothers, all gone. His father is the one who sent for me.
I hear they are in a feud with one of the women higher up in the mountains. I have heard gossip that we work with the same plants, leave offerings for the same forest deities. The gossip has also told me, that the procession will be a curious one.
There is talk of a room made of metal, forged and hammered over three fortnights. I don’t know how the seedlings will survive, if we have to live there. How would we even see the sun? What would the room even smell like? Would it have air? Maybe I can leave them outside. I hear the old man has a temple, maybe there. Temples must have sun, no? How else would the gods come down to make their home?
The neighbours are about to arrive. The first ones already have. I’m glad my aunts could make it, I didn’t know how I was to cook and pack and put on all this gold by myself. Not to mention, you never know when one of these might disappear.
Aunts have already started cooking, grinding pastes. My mothers’ sister brought me pickles, for the trip. We sit in the shaded room while she tells me about wedding nights. She untangles my hair, singing songs, and I use the time to re-organize and tie my pack. I don’t know when I will see her again, or father, or brother.
The important thing - I remind myself - is to be quiet and coy. Clever, in a way that doesn’t draw attention. With all this gold, I reason, I’m sure they will be distracted enough.