Dying Wishes

By Anitha Krishnan

Finalist for 2023 Rakuten Kobo Emerging Writer Prize in Speculative Fiction Category

 

When I was seven, my mother died. I struck a bargain with the Gods to bring her back to life.

 

For thirteen years now, I have served as a Harbinger of Death, coaxing dying wishes out of mortals so that the God of Death may grant them moksha, liberation from the cycles of birth and death.

 

The man about to die this evening claims he has nothing to offer me. He is dying a content man, a rarity in our world. But when the God of Death arrives to lead his soul away, the man changes his mind about dying and flees, surreptitiously planting on me an enigma.

 

I only know I cannot trust any God with this secret. And that I will pay an unbearable price for this concealment. Yet again, I underestimate how savagely the Gods can wound me.

 

Set in Burlington, Ontario, this contemporary fantasy novel weaves Hindu mythology and South Indian folklore into a quest for belonging across different worlds – the World of Mortals and the World of Gods, India and Canada, the past and the present, the world outside and the one within. It is an offering to lovers of whimsical worlds and heartbreaking prose, and to anyone yearning to simply belong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dream Pedlar Books
• Release date: Mar 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9781775227830

Book preview

A HARBINGER OF DEATH

INFINITY

Mr. Paul Peregrine is about to die.

He looks spectacularly fit though. Tall. Upright. An erect posture. Not a stoop. Not a tremor in his mottled hands as he presses the button on his Keurig and makes himself one last shot of espresso. When the machine beeps, he lifts the cup and inhales the rich aroma of coffee, which always smells like early morning to me no matter what time of the day it is, and sips with great relish.

He looks like a man who has probably spent most of his life telling others what to do without ever having found anyone worth listening to. A world unto himself.

I am a visitor. And I am early. I must wait for either an invitation to enter or for him to be only a few minutes away from death.

I stand just beside his door, inside the only brick wall of his enormous penthouse studio. The other three sides of the vast rectangular space bear floor-to-ceiling windows punctuated by the occasional steel frame. The late afternoon sun has slipped out of sight but bright light and warmth gush through the east-facing glass walls and flood the apartment.

Everything is aglow. The spines of the books that cover most of the brick wall I’m hiding in. The appliances on the kitchen countertop tucked against a glass wall, overlooking the glass facades of neighbouring skyscrapers. The large, bright cornflower blue couch in the middle of the studio. The glass coffee table perched in front of it. The dust motes hovering over a golden beige carpet threaded with an intricate design of vines and red, yellow and orange leaves. It is his own slice of autumn, plucked from the world outside and preserved within for later enjoyment at leisure.

I wonder how old he is. His hair is a silvery grey, the colour of the sky caught in a snowstorm. Wrinkles are etched on his forehead like tattoos. He is dressed in cocktail attire, a bespoke charcoal grey suit and black shoes that gleam. The file made no mention of his age, I am certain, although I gave it no more than a brief glance back at my office on Brant Street Pier in Burlington before making my way to his waterfront dwelling in Toronto.

I’m only a little younger than Time, Mr. Peregrine’s deep, baritone voice strums the air around us.

The dying begin to see me in the minutes preceding their departure. But never before have I come across a mind-reader. Intrigued, I step out of the brick wall into his vast studio and smile at him.

You can read minds, I state and question simultaneously.

Only as well as you can take me away before my time is up, he accuses me of something I’m completely incapable of. He glances at his watch and looks back at me, one eyebrow raised. You’re early, he says, pretending to be irked by my sole virtue.

Most people appreciate the warning, I say. I’m usually an unexpected guest.

Oh, but we all are, my dear, he says. If only babies could speak in a language that adults can comprehend, I am sure their first words upon nascence would be ‘How on earth did I end up here?’

I smile. For all that I know about death and the dying, I know nothing about babies and birthing. I wonder if Mr. Peregrine has children of his own. I hope he doesn’t. No parent wishes to die without their children by their side. There are no family photos in his apartment. There are no personal effects either, I observe, now that I’m looking for them. I wonder if this is where Mr. Peregrine lives or if this is merely a place he has chosen to die in.

Only a few minutes remain for him to move on from this world. Time for me to carry out my duties. I thrust my hand into the pocket of my jacket, clasp a little vial I had tucked in there, without withdrawing it, and step forward.

Mr. Peregrine, do you have any last wishes – I begin but he cuts me off.

I have nothing to offer you, m’dear, he says. I am dying a content man. Truly. But I don’t want you to leave. I don’t get many visitors and, if I have any say in the matter, I’d much rather not die alone.

Of course, I’ll stay until it’s time. I pull my hand out of my pocket, leaving the vial inside. No use for it now. A very rare occurrence. Which means the God of Death himself will arrive. The thought perturbs my heart like the splash of a pebble in a lake and sends ripples through my entire being.

Mr. Peregrine sets his cup of coffee on the centre table, then reaches for a handle on one of the glass walls and steps out onto a balcony I hadn’t noticed before, beckoning me to join him with a wave of his arm. I step onto the balcony and it is like entering a cool blue world. Winter is still a few weeks away, but a chill has already descended all over us like a cold blanket. I bury my nose into the collar of my indigo leather jacket but am pleased that my hands are still clad in motorcycle gloves.

The autumn sky is a brilliant blue, the kind that doesn’t hurt your eyes to look at, and its splendour is reflected in the waters of Lake Ontario below us and as far as the eye can see. Planes glide like seagulls through the blue air to and from the Billy Bishop airport, a small island of white on the lake. I look to the left and behind, where the CN Tower rises from behind an assortment of skyscrapers like a very tall, long-legged ballerina wearing a classical tutu. To the right, more glass and steel and construction cranes jostle for space by the lakeshore.

There, Mr. Peregrine points into the distance. You can see the falls.

I peer at the horizon but am unable to discern the relentless cascade of Niagara Falls. He must have very keen eyesight, I think as I glance sideways at Mr. Peregrine, whose brown eyes are focussed unmoving on something so far away he might as well be looking within himself. It won’t be long now before those eyes cease to soak up the wondrous sights of our world.

How did you come to be here? I ask him, shrugging towards his studio.

You mean this? I’m what you’d call an unexpected guest here, he grins, ready to share a story. The people who own this place haven’t visited in years. They send around a real estate agent to let this place. For some peculiar reason, he never fails to suggest to prospective tenants that this place may or may not be haunted. It is an arrangement I wasn’t particularly inclined to disturb.

Ah, that explains the Toronto housing market bubble. All these empty apartments that may or may not be haunted.

What about you? Are you from around here?

I am taken aback. The dying are almost always unable to spare a thought for anyone other than themselves. And this particular question is posed to me so rarely I need to think before I can answer.

India, I say finally. But we moved to Canada when I was four years old and never went back. I grew up in Oakville. Burlington is home now.

Aah. He gives me a knowing smile, as if he has stumbled upon a long-lost nugget of knowledge. Some wonderful conservation parks you’ve got there in Halton. I’d always dreamed of retiring there. In proximity to Mountsberg or Crawford Lake. Too bad I ended up working until my last day on earth.

I cannot tell if he is wistful or merely self-deprecating. I hope it is the latter. Regret is such a futile sentiment, yet so many precious moments of life are squandered on it. I need not glance at any manmade timekeeper to know Mr. Peregrine has only a couple of minutes left in this lifetime. I wonder if it is enough for him to explain to me how he can read minds but before I open my mouth, he asks me yet another entirely unexpected question.

Whose life was spared when you became a Harbinger?

I feel my insides churn in a concoction of great unease and mild fear. Yes, I am a Harbinger of Death. I present myself to the dying in the minutes preceding their demise so that they may unburden themselves to me. I give them a final opportunity to rid themselves of their unfulfilled desires and their deepest regrets. I absolve them of their darkest secrets and their unpardonable crimes, so that they may step out of this world, out of this life, unfettered by the chains of fear and shame, guilt and remorse that keep them shackled to this endless spiral of life and death and rebirth.

For thirteen revolutions of the earth around the sun have I liberated countless human souls, sinners and saints alike. Towards the end, everyone seeks redemption. Everyone seeks freedom. Emancipation from words spoken or left unspoken, from deeds done or left undone, from temptations resisted or succumbed to, from paths forged or left unearthed. Liberation from all the travails of living and all the tribulations of dying.

But no one has wondered about my role in the unfolding drama of their death. I am merely a bystander, a facilitator. Like the night sky that unfurls herself for the stars to prick her with their light in different places. All eyes in the Universe seek only the stars. There is nothing to behold in my blackness.

Yet, here is a man, mere moments from his death, a man who claims to be almost as old as Time, a man who can read minds, who knows what I am, and quite possibly what I’ve had to do to become a Harbinger. He is no mere mortal. And so I choose to answer what may very well be his last question before he dies. Whose life was spared when I became a Harbinger?

My mother’s, I reply, a little warily.

Was it a fair transaction?

I shrug. One life for another. I didn’t really have a choice in the matter.

Mr. Peregrine tut-tuts and steps closer to me. He bends to whisper in my ear. All lives are not equal. Never trust any God who insists otherwise.

Clearly, he knows too much. How do you know all this? I ask. Who are you?

Wrong questions, he admonishes me. Listen – he begins but is cut off as a black cloud blots out the sun. The wind lobs helpless leaves at us. The blue sky turns an ominous grey. Thunder threatens to drop the heavens on our heads. Lightning fractures the air. And celestial dwellers pelt us with fat drops of cold rain.

Death has arrived, I scream to make myself heard over the din, fold my arms over my chest, and turn away from the balcony to head inside. But there he is. Death.

The God of Death stands at the threshold, leaning against the doorframe, dressed in beige chinos and a summer blue shirt, sleeves rolled up his forearms, a hint of a joke pulling his lips into a half-smile, an image of effortless calm, even delight, in the eye of the storm. He loves to stage a dramatic entry, but I fail to see why Mr. Peregrine merits such a thunderstorm of a curtain call. One thing I know now for certain. Mr. Peregrine is certainly dying a content man. Which is why Death is here.

I take a moment to catch my breath, like I always do, at the sight of Death. All my encounters with him have been in the moments leading to another’s demise. It is impossible to describe what he looks like. Most of you will not see him the way I do.

Death is a reflection of our lives, of who we are. How he appears to you is entirely a consequence of what you feel about yourself and your life in the moment you encounter him, which may be at the time of your passing or later. Of course, no one ever lives to tell the tale. And the ones who do, the ones whose lives are spared because their loved ones agree to be recruited as Harbingers of Death, have no recollection of their rendezvous whatsoever.

But remember and believe in this. If you unburden yourself completely to me before dying, then Death himself will arrive to guide your precious, free soul away from this world. As he has arrived now for Mr. Peregrine. It is on occasions such as these that I herald his arrival, albeit unknowingly, like the sky that hangs low before it gives up its first snowflake to the earth.

And you will see Death the way I do. The unencumbered soul finds Death extremely alluring. Like a temptation you yearn to surrender to. Like an addiction you no longer wish to stave off. Like a lover you can no longer bear to be separated from. Also, perhaps a little mischievous, as if he is tempting you to hop on to an adventure with him. The unburdened soul steps away from life with ease and grace, like a rose of Sharon that blooms only for a day and wilts that very night without question or complaint.

A sad but momentous occasion, Mr. Peregrine, Death holds out his hand.

For someone who has the most distasteful job of seizing from people their lives, their very souls, Death appears every bit as nonchalant and pragmatic as he did when I first met him more than two decades ago. Back then, I had loathed him. Twenty-two years since, I am unable to walk past him without fearing that my juddering heart will betray the attraction that supplanted my hostility aeons ago.

Only my greatest delight, Mr. Peregrine says, his sonorous voice jolting me back to the reality of his presence. I had momentarily forgotten about him since the arrival of Death. I feel the heat of a blush rise to my cheeks as I recall Mr. Peregrine’s uncanny talent for reading minds. I wonder if he has learnt about my feelings for Death. I am ashamed to admit I can’t help but feel a little relieved that my secret shall die with him. Any moment now.

I turn back to look at him. A knowing smile plays on his lips as he steps forward to take Death’s hand in his own. This is evidently not their first meeting. But then something flits across Mr. Peregrine’s face before he reaches Death. A thought. A realisation. Something is amiss. A frown erases his smile.

Before I lend a voice to my observations, I feel my body being yanked as Mr. Peregrine first pulls me towards him with surprising strength and agility, and then shoves me against Death, which sends the two of us crashing onto the floor of his studio. As Death and I scramble to our feet, Mr. Peregrine hurls himself over the railing of his balcony.

A gust of wind blows freezing rain into our faces as we leap towards the railing and look below. Lightning forks through the skies and pierces the space below us, striking Mr. Peregrine. In an explosion of light and heat and electric charge, the dying man is metamorphosed into a gyrfalcon. The white-and-black speckled bird of prey buffets the wet air beneath its wings and swoops and soars out of reach and out of sight, leaving the echoes of its shrill cries in its wake.

Dammit, Death roars louder than the thunderstorm he has created, terrifying it into hiding. The dark clouds in the sky disappear into its azure blue. The late afternoon sun reappears as if a light switch has been flicked on. The only remnants of the thunderstorm are the wet debris on every exposed surface of concrete and the dark look on the face of Death, which doesn’t quite manage to conceal his fury.

Infinity, he turns to me and says, did Mr. Peregrine give up any dying wishes? There is an anger, a harshness in his face I have never seen before.

None. I shake my head.

Are you sure? he asks. Think carefully. What were his exact words on the matter?

He takes one menacing step towards me and, for a moment, I want to step back and shrink into myself. But I don’t. Because I know the answer to his question. I remember clearly for I’d never before heard such words spoken by a dying man.

Mr. Peregrine said he was dying a content man. ‘I have nothing to offer you, m’dear.’ That was his precise choice of words. I think for an instant and add for what it’s worth, I think he was speaking the truth. I believed him.

Death looks into my eyes for another instant, then nods.

Who was he? I ask.

Death hesitates, but only for a moment. An Immortal who chose to give up his human life.

And then he’s gone, leaving me with a million speculations and questions swirling and spiralling in my head. Amid the fracas, two thoughts ensconce themselves firmly in my mind.

First, the existence of Immortals can no longer be denied.

Second, the death of an Immortal plunges our world into the Second Age of Eternal Death.

PRAYERS IN VAIN

ANANYA

Ananya was seven years old when she learnt for the first time how much she could hate someone. It was the day Neha pushed her to the ground right after school, unravelled her ribbons and well-oiled tresses, and rubbed dirt into her hair and forehead, cackling like an evil witch the entire time.

There, said Neha, as she stood up to admire her handiwork and dusted her hands. That should make you less greasy.

"Teli, Teli," Neha’s cronies chanted the Hindi word for oilman, perhaps the only word of any Indian language they knew, as each took her turn to kick sand into Ananya’s face and hair. Ananya closed her eyes and curled herself into a foetal position as the ominous laughter of her attackers closed in on her. But even in that moment of desperation, she couldn’t help but wonder how beautiful Neha was, and she failed to fathom how someone who looked so beautiful could also be so cruel.

She silently recited all the shlokas her mother had taught her since her time in the womb.

Om gam ganapataye namaha. A prayer to Lord Ganesha, the remover of obstacles. The toe cap of a pitiless shoe clobbered the small of her back.

Om namo bhagavate vasudevaya. A surrender to Lord Krishna, who rescued Draupadi when she was gambled away like a material possession by her five husbands in a game of dice. A callous hand yanked Ananya’s hair.

Om tryambakam yajamahe … An entreaty to Lord Rudra for triumph over death. The sole of a brutal shoe landed on Ananya’s calf and sliced through her skin. Something wet and sticky fell on her ear.

Om bhoorbhuva swaha … The Gayatri mantra. An invocation of the Goddess, beseeching her to stop enemies in their tracks. A stick was pushed through Ananya’s blouse down her back, where it scraped her skin.

A deep sense of despair flooded through her coiled body as she realised no God was coming to save her. She ceased to chant mantras and focused on keeping her eyes squeezed shut so that the tears would remain trapped within. She wasn’t intent on giving her tormentors the pleasure of seeing her cry.

Tires squealed in the distance. Car doors slammed. And the blows stopped raining on her.

Neha, let’s go, one of the girls said.

There was a scurrying and a shuffling that quickly drifted further and further away. Soon, car doors were slammed again. Engines revved and roared off. And then there was silence and loneliness.

Ananya rolled onto her back gingerly and opened her eyes. The afternoon sun twinkled benignly at her through branches and leaves far overhead. Parts of her body felt as if they were on fire. Some other parts threatened to implode with pain. Sunshine and leaf shadows danced on her face. The breeze, buoyed by the lilt of birdsong, ruffled her dusty, dishevelled hair, indifferent to her pain. Every creature of nature around her remained insistent on doing what it always did, whether or not it befit the situation. Life continued to live and move all around her as she lay rooted to the ground, willing for a way to stop her pain.

AGE OF ETERNAL DEATH

INFINITY

The most important guideline in The Motorcycle Handbook published by Ontario’s Ministry of Transportation is also the most easily and most often forgotten and flouted. One must not ride without first getting into the right frame of mind.

Technically speaking, I shouldn’t be weaving my Harley Davidson Night Train through the lanes of Gardiner Expressway right now, when the world has just crashed into the Second Age of Eternal Death.

Yes. If the legends are true, this has happened before. Back when the Earth was merely an island, a single undivided mass of land surrounded by water, an Immortal chose to die, and the world drifted into the First Age of Eternal Death.

The name would lead you to believe it was akin to some sort of a decline, a descent into the Dark Ages. Far from it. It was, in fact, a very prosperous era. Wars ended. Peace prevailed. Illnesses were obliterated. Poverty was eradicated. People lived in harmony with nature, and there was no record of any natural disaster during this era. Crime was non-existent. Trust and kindness endured. Humans wanted for nothing. They lived in the bliss of abundance and passed on when it was time, peacefully and painlessly in their sleep, content and satisfied at having lived well.

Everything was perfect. Everything the world aspires to today, it had already achieved in the First Age of Eternal Death. Utopia couldn’t have been more perfect. It was a world in which there were no wars to fight. No injustices to set right. No wrongs to correct. No problems to solve. No inequalities to erase. No diseases to cure. No sins to repent. No sinners to punish. No crimes to avenge. No wrath of nature to fear. No scarcity to save for. No pain to seek relief from. It was nirvana.

There was no need and no desire for the world to be any different. Change could only make things worse. For what could possibly be superior to perfection? Every moment in time was immaculate. Every inch of space was flawless.

But that also meant there was nothing more to strive for. Nothing more to hope for. Nothing more to pray for. Nothing more to live for.

A lesser species would have soon brought upon itself the kind of economic, cultural, and ethical deterioration that typically follows a golden age. Its members would have turned against each other out of sheer boredom. Torment of another would have quickly become a favourite form of entertainment. The pursuit of thrill by any means whatsoever would have become the most common obsession. Anything that would have made them feel alive once again, that would have given them a reason to wake up in the morning and look forward to the day ahead.

But the sublime people who lived during the First Age of Eternal Death were merely disillusioned. For aeons, mankind had been lured by the promise of nirvana. And now that humans stood at the pinnacle of everything that life had to offer, the only thought that arose in their minds was that of utter disbelief. Is this it? The disenchantment was stupefying.

There was only one way forward. And so the people walked. All the people who lived on the vast, uninterrupted stretch of land on earth walked and walked until they reached its fringes where land, water, and sky merged into each other. And they continued to walk. And they gave themselves up to the endless ocean surrounding the land that had been their home for millennia. And for the first time in the history of the universe, humankind became extinct.

I first heard this story thirteen years ago, when I was recruited to the Order of Life and Death as a Harbinger of Death. As far as legends go, this one is pretty cool, I must admit. Who’d have ever thought there was a time when the human race had been completely eradicated?

But the more I think about it, the more I realise that this story raises more questions than it answers. First, nothing at all is known about the first Immortal who chose to die. Heck, we don’t even know much about the Immortals in the first place. Second, if the human race was eradicated, how was it resurrected? Third, and perhaps the most pressing question for now, is this. Mr. Peregrine, an Immortal, chose to die. Then why didn’t he?

My head is starting to hurt with all these thoughts swirling in it incessantly. I am almost past Oakville and I decide to get out of my head for the remainder of the ride. It is dark now. The tail lamps of the vehicles ahead of me light up the ON-403 W highway like a string of red fairy lights. There are no puddles here. Death’s thunderstorm likely did not shake the air in this part of our world.

I exit at Appleby Ln and head south to Lakeshore Rd for a leisurely drive past the sprawling lakeside mansions, mostly uninhabited but beautiful nonetheless. Their porch lights more than compensate for the inner darkness their windows fail to conceal. Even in the dark, these structures of beauty set this part of Burlington apart from the rest.

Spencer Smith Park is a grey mass of nothingness, bleakly lit by the light spilling over from the streetlights and apartment buildings across the road. I park my bike and walk on the grass laden with the fallen leaves of autumn and goose poop. My feet know how to take me where my eyes can’t see, having walked this way countless times in the past thirteen years.

Brant Street Pier is not even a decade old. It has not even stood for as long as it took to be constructed and opened for public use. Its beacon stands precisely at the erstwhile entrance to the Ontario headquarters of The Order of Life and Death.

For the seven years it took to build the landmark, the Gods did everything in their power to delay its construction. One toppled a crane over into the lake and brought all construction at the site to a halt in the summer of 2008. Another spent several nights leaching concrete from reinforcement beams, which then had to be fixed.

Yes, Gods can be petty alright. But when humans demonstrate an indomitable will, even the Gods make way out of grudging respect. Unfortunately, very few among mankind believe this to be true. Those who do, live the kind of lives others can’t even dream of. Those who don’t, curse the Gods and their own families and their dogs until they run out of beings and things to point fingers at for their miserable lot in life.

But the Gods had the last laugh anyway. When the pier was built, they shifted the entrance to the office of the Order right into the beacon.

Here I am now, walking up the desolate pier, the cold autumnal wind mercifully whipping my hair away from my face and not into my eyes. I climb the circular staircase and reach the raised platform where the beacon stands, lit up in purple this evening. I bend and enter through the wide circular beams, trace a rectangle on the floor with my finger, step inside it, and close my eyes.

The world starts to spin around me. I can feel it. I have seen it countless times. The tower, the lake, the apartment buildings, Burlington, Ontario, Canada, all the lands and the oceans on this planet, everything begins to revolve around me. Slow, at first. Then accelerating, quite rapidly. And then at such breakneck speed it is like watching the truth unfold in slow motion.

The next time you visit Niagara Falls, stand and stare hard, unblinking, at the relentless cascade. And you will see the waters tumble gently like tufty balls of cotton, like clouds of feather descending unhurriedly. Stroboscopic effect, it is called. The simultaneous existence of motion and abeyance.

Every time we enter the office of the Order, we are reminded of the duality of this world and our lives. Past and future merge into the present. Time speeds up and also slows down. Every phenomenon is a dual force tugging at us from two opposite ends.

And all we can do, all we really ought to do, is find our equilibrium. There is only one place where it can exist. In the here and now.

This is not an esoteric concept to comprehend. On the contrary, it is so simple that truth-seekers are often disappointed when they stumble upon this understanding. Quite like the people who lived during the First Age of Eternal Death, it strikes me only now, nearly thirteen years after having first heard the legend from my boss on my first day at work.

Suddenly everything around me grinds to a halt.

I open my eyes.

I have arrived.

RELUCTANT FAITH

ANANYA

The temples of South India have ornate spires called gopurams , monumental entrance towers studded with colourful figurines that strike regal poses. A mere glimpse of a gopuram can wash away all your sins, Ananya’s mother often reminded her, perhaps in an attempt to not forget the stories of her own land of birth and childhood.

"But Amma, this temple has no gopuram," Ananya had once remarked, referring to the unremarkable, windowless, single-storey structure off Bronte Road in Oakville. It was the only temple they had known and visited in the three years they had lived in Canada.

Amma had only looked at her with wistful eyes and muttered, Perhaps some sins are unworthy of pardon.

Ananya took off her dusty shoes and socks and placed them on a shelf set up for the purpose outside the unremarkable, white-walled building, which could have easily been mistaken for a decrepit warehouse of contraband goods were it not for the billboard atop its roof proclaiming it to be a place of worship. She stepped barefoot into a small foyer and headed for the foot-wash area, which was a large alcove with taps protruding from the wall in a row and a sunken area to stand in and cleanse oneself before entering the home of the deities.

The first splash of cold water on her bruised legs and arms stung like yet another series of blows from Neha and her cronies. Ananya’s eyes smarted at the memory, and every pore of her skin throbbed with shame and helplessness. She washed her face, ran wet fingers through her dirty hair, and bunched it into a limp ponytail. Not requiring a mirror to validate her hypothesis, she was certain she looked as if she had just stepped out of a boxer’s ring and not from the premises of the most prestigious and expensive elementary school in the region of Halton. And with that image of herself fixed in her mind, she stepped over the threshold into the dwelling of the deities.

A God or Goddess must be so alluring that the body, mind, and soul are instinctively drawn to their presence without any hesitation whatsoever. But often, that devotion, when not appreciated or even acknowledged, is quickly superseded by doubt and anger.

It should therefore come as no surprise that when Ananya found her palms coming together in a gesture of prayer and her legs hobbled and carried her towards the raised platform where the deities were installed, she also grew aware of a stronger instinct to slip her backpack from her shoulders and fling it into the white marble face of Lord Krishna, whose idol, slightly taller than she was, took centre stage.

The Supreme God. The enchanter. The heartthrob among all Indian Gods, flaunting a crest of peacock feathers, a flute pressed to his lips, his consort Radha by his side, utterly mesmerised by his beauty, entirely oblivious to her own.

Amma always stressed how the Gods of South India were chiselled from black granite. The white marble statues on the raised platform were so far removed from the images Amma had planted in her mind that Ananya had to wonder if even the Gods had been forced to shed their South Indian duskiness in their journey across the Atlantic.

Periyar was performing aarti. In his right hand, he held a tall bronze lamp with five lighted wicks and gently moved it in a circular manner in front of the idol of Lord Krishna. In his left hand, he held a small bronze bell, which he tinkled in rhythm with the motion of the lamp.

The temple was pregnant with the aroma of ghee, which fuelled the wicks, and the fragrance of the sandalwood agarbattis set at the foot of each resident Indian God and Goddess. It was the fragrance of Ananya’s own home where miniature idols and large framed photos of a myriad of deities rested comfortably in the corner of the kitchen shelves beside countless jars of spices and pickles.

The look on Radha’s face was not unlike how bewitched Amma appeared whenever she stood in front of the Gods at home, hands folded, eyes closed, beseeching them for something that isn’t, her heart yearning to be somewhere other than here and now. It was a sentiment that Ananya understood only too well. At least Amma had another homeland to pine for. As far as Ananya was concerned, Oakville was the only home, Wintercrest was the only school, Amma was the only parent, and Periyar was the only other trustworthy adult she had ever known in her brief lifetime of seven years. There was nowhere else and no one else for her to escape to.

Periyar climbed down the steps of the platform and appeared in front of her, lamp in one hand and a silver bowl of holy ash in another. By mere force of habit, Ananya moved her palms over the top of the flames, close enough to feel their warmth without getting seared, then dipped her right forefinger into the bowl and dabbed holy ash on the hollow of her neck. Had Amma been here, she would have smeared the coarse grey powder on Ananya’s forehead, which would have earned her yet another ridicule from Neha and her mates. But Periyar expressed no unwarranted opinion on the matter. Wasn’t it a good thing then that neither Amma nor Neha was here in this one place that felt like home to Ananya?

Periyar climbed back up to the platform and sat by the foot of Lord Krishna, waiting. Ananya paid homage to the other idols on the stage. Lord Ganesha and a lingam of Lord Shiva sat to the right of Lord Krishna. To his left, Goddess Durga, the ten-handed, lion-riding, terror-inducing demon slayer, appeared serene and resplendent in the midst of gore and violence. And beyond her, steps away from the main platform, was the Navagraha, a shrine atop which stood nine figurines, embodiments of the nine celestial bodies whose movements govern the fates of all the lives in the universe. She circled the Navagraha nine times, fury and fear alternating in her gut. Rage at the Gods who had abandoned her. Fear that any sign of disrespect towards them might earn her something graver than their indifference. Their wrath. It was terribly infuriating that she could not feel anger without an accompanying sense of wrongdoing.

Back at the foot of Lord Krishna, Ananya winced as she attempted to sit cross-legged, then gave up and settled into a sidesaddle. She looked into the eyes of Periyar, who waited patiently for her to speak, as he always did in the hours right after school when the temple was still closed to all visitors but her. She let her tears flow unabashed.

Why does God not come to help me when I call out to him? Ananya sobbed.

You know the answer to that, my child, Periyar replied, his voice deep and assuring like a warm winter blanket. He himself was dressed like a monk. A saffron dhoti was tucked around his waist. Another long piece of saffron fabric draped around his shoulders covered his back and chest. Holy ash was smeared on his forehead like the stripes on the back of a chipmunk. There was something beatific about his presence that made Ananya want to be a good person. A good child who obeyed her elders, scored well on tests, prayed to God, and wasn’t clobbered by bullies on the school ground.

I don’t, Ananya snapped. And even if it is what you tell me every time, it still doesn’t make any sense to me.

Then I have to ask you again. Periyar smiled. Are you sure you really needed God’s help this time?

"What do you mean? I was lying on the ground, sand in my eyes. There were eight girls, some much bigger than me, standing all around me, kicking dirt into my hair and face, stamping my body and ridiculing me, calling me teli, teli. I needed the help of a million Gods to fend them off. But not even one heard my prayers."

"I’m sure they heard your prayers, Periyar said. They merely chose not to respond in the way you wanted them to."

But Amma says God always gives us what we need if we pray with faith and sincerity.

She is right. God always gives you what you need, but that need may not always be what you want.

"That’s not true. I needed help today, and God didn’t give me what I needed."

Ananya, my child, replied Periyar. Yes, you needed help today. But have you considered the possibility that maybe it was not God’s help you needed?

If not God’s, then whose?

I thought you’d have worked that out by now. Periyar smiled.

Ananya shook her head. I can’t think when I’m in fear. Or in pain. She pouted, annoyed with herself for failing to arrive at the answer. If not God, then who was supposed to help her? Her teachers? The ones who dared not offend the hoity-toity daughters of Ontario’s richest business families? The geeks in her class? They were probably relieved that they were no longer the targets of Neha and her gang. Then who?

"Your own, chellamey," came Periyar’s reply.

Ananya fell silent.

Think about it after you have eaten, Periyar said, reaching for a large plate by the foot of the enraptured Radha. Partaking of food is for the pleasure of the five senses alone. Let us try and leave the endless thoughts of our mind out of it.

Ananya’s eyes widened in surprise. Mangoes! She shrieked as she grabbed one of the shapely summer fruits of India and bit into it, its pulpy succulence making her realise that even though God remained conspicuous by his absence, the mortal seated in front of her and the other waiting for her at home surpassed the divine in conjuring up miracles.

It was Periyar’s and Amma’s unflinching faith in God that kindled the flames of belief in Ananya too, despite all the times God had failed to show up for her. At least, God had had the good sense to send Amma and Periyar into her life. And for the first time that day, Ananya felt the lightness of joy buoy her spirits.

Had it not been for you, Periyar, I would have stopped believing in God a long time ago, she mumbled through a delicious mouthful of mango.

THE ORDER OF LIFE AND DEATH

INFINITY

Looming tall in front of me is an infinitely long hourglass in an empty atrium. Its elegant narrow neck is at eye-level, but if you were to stand beside me, that is exactly how it would appear to you too, no matter how tall or short you are. Two receptacles bloom from the top and bottom of the neck like bellflowers unfurling from both ends of a stem. Their ends are nowhere in sight. The bottom receptacle disappears into a pond of white mist far beneath my feet. The top unfurls into an empty expanse of white sky where nothing lingers. A sky without a sun and a moon, a sky without clouds and stars.

No sand or powdered marble gushes through the hourglass. Only thick white mist swirls within. The glass is so fine you wouldn’t even discern its shape were it not for the haze that dances within like delicate wisps of smoke from an invisible incense stick.

The tendrils are rumoured to spiral along the path of a double helix, the symbol of life. Only a handful of Harbingers are lucky enough to witness this beautiful dance, it is said.

But if you ask me, all of us, Gods and mortals alike, see only what we want to see. If I