Did you know noise has colours? White, pink, black, blue, brown, and violet. Sometimes, even red and green. The sharp whine of the air conditioner in the clinic is not a white noise like one would assume, but a pink one. Whatever may be the colour, the noise affects me the same. I yearn for silence. A silence so quiet that it crushes me in its embrace, but it is a wish that remains unfulfilled. People don’t understand I need the quiet to think, to unravel, to grieve. They fear silence. Of what it may do to me, so they fill my days with noise, with activity. There is a constant humdrum, an uproar. Doctors, parents, husband, work colleagues, and neighbours. Talking, probing, and comforting. But their words don’t comfort me, for I seek silence. I want to be stunned by it.

Dr Rosenstein finishes scribbling, and his kind, twinkling eyes settle on me. “So, Naina, you mentioned you can recollect the incident. Tell me how it makes you feel?”

He pronounces my name wrong. It is Nai-na and not his version of Naee-naa. I have been his patient for the last fifteen sessions, but he still doesn’t get the pronunciation right. It makes me want to yell at him, but I curb the instinct.

“I feel guilty.”

“You didn’t do it intentionally. What makes you blame yourself?”

“It happened under my watch.”

Dr Rosenstein makes a noncommittal sound and changes track. “You mentioned about a recurrent dream.”

“Yes, doctor. I dream of lakes. Every night, I find myself sitting at the edge of a lake. The water laps at my bare feet. Silence all around.”

“A lake symbolises our sub-conscious mind and our constant fears, Naina. What are your fears?”

I slipped. Hit my head against the bathtub. A wail. 

I shake my head to clear it. Before I can answer, the timer rings, and our session is over. Saved by the bell.

“See you in one week. I don’t think I need to recalibrate your medication.”

I abhor the medications I am on. They dull the edges of everything. My eyes feel like smudged glass. Nothing is clear and nothing is dark–a blurred hodgepodge of everything. I am aware the medicines keep me sane, or at least, prevent me from going further insane. By ingesting the pills, I keep the omnipresent pile of questions–at least a few–at bay. 

“Yes, doctor.” With a quiet click, I exit the room and make my way outside. Kuldeep flings the magazine aside as he spots me and gives me a smile. He pats my hand as, shoulder-to-shoulder, we make our way to the car.

“How was the session?” His hands tattoo against the steering wheel.

“It was the same.”

“I think you’re getting better.”

“I’m glad you think so, Kuldeep.” I smile at him and look away, glad that he is concentrating on the road. There are times, I feel my eyes may divulge more than required. But for how long can I stop the inevitable? And do I even care? From the window, I watch the trees as they change colour and shed their leaves. I wonder which colour category would the noise of a falling leaf fit in?

When I reach home, there is another round of questions (theirs) and monosyllabic answers (mine) until we eat dinner. Pahari daal and rice are on the menu. Once it was my favourite, but now it is just sustenance. While we are at the table, Ma gets a call from her NGO. I watch her while she talks to the person in-charge. Her animated expression as she enquires after a new mother grates me. For most of my childhood, I have yearned for my mother’s attention and resented her job, but for once, her inattentiveness appears like a balm. An unexpected breeze on a humid day. Life can be strange, I think. The one thing we covet for most of our existence can, by its absence, become the thing we need the most. I try to zone out, but the conversational manacles do not relax their hold over me and I escape from them to the relative peace of my room and float to sleep aided by the medicines.  

I dream of lakes again. Not lakes, but of a specific lake. Roopkund Lake. Strange to dream in such vivid details about a place one has never visited. This time, my buddh dadda, my Hari, also makes an appearance. I have not thought of my paternal great-grandfather for ages. But here he is. I am around six years old and sitting on his knee while he narrates a story to me. We are near a lake surrounded by mountains. Hari was a forest ranger and always had interesting stories in his kitty. In our joint household, he was my best friend and when we were alone, I’d call him by his name, Hari. It was our secret. I spent countless days with him and his endless tales, as Ma was almost always at the NGO. 

But why did I dream of him? Is it a sign of something? Hari is pointing at something and I struggle to see what it is.

“Come closer, Naina. It is right here, can’t you see it?” he asks in his gruff, bidi-roughened voice.

Try as I might, I cannot see what he wants me to, and I wake up to the shrill noise of the alarm beating its chest. 

It is Monday.

I work in an IT software company. Earlier, I loved my job and the relentless sound of fingers hitting the keyboard would make my heart sing. Now, I stare at my computer while my colleagues whisper around me. Everyone is super nice and I want them to stop. I want them to be normal. Constantly patting me on my shoulder or clutching my hand doesn’t squeeze the guilt out of me. If anything, it strengthens grief’s handlers, anger and frustration. 

Trapped in the cubicle, I want to escape. I want to go home. Not the home where Kuldeep and I stay. But home, back in India. Back in Gwaldam in Uttarakhand. To Hari, who is as lost as me, but more permanently than me. I still breathe in air and exhale grief. The mountains’ siren song lures me in. Or is it the mountains’ remorse? At a moment’s whim, I type in the URL of an airline and check the prices of the tickets. A flight leaving in the evening from Chicago to Delhi captures my attention, and like an automaton, I click on it. It is the last seat and I book it. 

The ting of the confirmation mail snaps me out of my reverie, and I am aghast at what I have done. But not wholly. I am rarely impulsive. But a trip that too, a trip to India? To home? I don’t even have my passport. I glance at my wristwatch and see the hands overshadowing at 12:00. Feelings slot themselves into their grooves in my mind and, with a purpose, I pack my belongings. I drop a mail to my boss requesting for the sympathy leave that I was eligible for, but had ignored. 

Usually, Kuldeep picks me up from work. How would I reach home? Where is my passport? Can I really go home? But go home to where? No one lives in Gwaldam anymore.

One question at a time. Glancing at the bus schedule, I notice one will roll in about fifteen minutes and I rush out. When I reach home, it is empty. I think it is a sign from above that my parents are out. Even though September has rolled in, it is not as cold as last year. The mountains can be unpredictable, so I throw a few clothes in, jackets, thermals, woollen socks, medicines, etc, and my passport and book a cab. Within an hour of planning, I am en route to the airport. I am about to punch myself when my phone rings. It is Kuldeep.

“Hi, Nainu. The next weekend is the party and Brian has invited us home. Should I confirm, we will be there?”

Say nothing, I urge myself. “Yes,” I eke out. 

“Great! I will be a few minutes late to pick you up today.”

We exchange ‘I love you’, but don’t really mean it, it is just lip service. A way to end a call. At the airport, I check-in and clear the security. Vacillating between sending a message to Kuldeep or not, I decide to send it once I have boarded. In the lounge, a constant barrage of announcements hammers the sound waves, but I pay attention, as I cannot zone out, or else I may miss my flight. With the seat belt securely buckled in, I message my husband and switch the phone off. Let the pandemonium break out. I will be home by then. Or at least, over the homeland.

During the flight, I think of accommodations and logistics. I could stay with a few remaining relatives in Gwaldam, but I didn’t want to do that for fear of discovery. And their interrogative questions. Maybe a hotel? I pop in my pills and give into the medically induced slumber. Another benefit of the pink-noised deep, continuous but low hum of the engines in the cabin is, it lulls me to sleep.

“I almost had a heart attack when Madhwalji tore into the office. His eyes were wild and his hair streaked with ice. He could barely talk because he was breathing so hard! It was shocking for a greenhorn like me to witness the breakdown of a hardened forest ranger like him!” Hari says.

My eyes almost pop out. “What happened, Hari? What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Skeletons! A lake full of skeletons!’ His voice, raspy from fear or fatigue. Our boss, Mr Smithie, had sent him to keep an eye out for the Japs. There were rumours of them coming in from the Himalayan side. When Madhwalji dripped into the room, he brought much more than the chill with him.”

“What does that mean, Hari?”

“It means he brought in the cold and much more.”

My dubious okay makes Hari laugh. “You will get it when I explain further. Mr Smithie asked me to accompany Madhwalji to the spot where he saw the bones. The next morning, we set off early and Madhwalji, who usually was a laugh-a-minute kind of guy, did not utter a word. He was quiet as the silence around us in the mountains.”

“What happened?”

“We reached the lake after a six-day trek through deep forests and we emerged above the tree lines into a frozen meadow. On one side were the mighty Himalayas, white as a snow wall, and on the other side was the narrow path that would take us to Roopkund Lake. There was a stone Ganesh idol under a makeshift rock shelter adorned by colour pennants and an iron trident. The adjoining steep ridgelines ended in a pass at maybe fifteen thousand feet above sea level! There was hardly any oxygen to breathe!”

“How come you are alive?”

Hari grinned. “Less oxygen, Laudi, not zero. The lake was the most beautiful place I have ever seen. Turquoise waters shone under the hazy winter sun, still and serene except for…”

“For what? Tell me!”

Hari looks at me hanging by his knee. “Maybe you are still too young for this story. Let me tell you another one?”

“No! I want to hear this one!”

“Laudi, you are still a baby!” Hari tickles me under my chin, but I remain grumpy.

I wake with a start as the airplane starts its descent, and I have my answer. I know where I am going. Roopkund Lake. The lake where Hari saw what he did. He spoke of its beauty and tranquillity. And peace is what I crave.

When I land, India is firmly in the grasp of the second Modi wave, and saddened by the Chandrayaan-2 Vikram crash. It is all the news channels and radio talk about. In the cab, pacing towards the taxi stand, I turn my phone on and it rings almost immediately.

“Why, Nainu?” Kuldeep’s voice is as low as it is far.

“I am sorry.”

“We were moving ahead, getting past the accident.”

“I am sorry.”

He sighs. “Where are you?”

“Where I want to be, Kuldeep. I need space to breathe. A month, please. I need just a month. Everything–‑and everyone–‑was closing in on me.”

Kuldeep breathes in sharply. “Okay, Nainu. I love you.”

My lips form the words, but my tongue arrests their movement. “Me too.” I finally speak.

Slipping on my light jacket, I board the overnight bus that will take me to Gwaldam. As a passing thought, my mind conjures up reasons my mother didn’t bother calling to ask about me. Like an invasive vine taking over a tree, causing its demise, I feel the tendrils of the NGO constrict around my heart. I take a deep breath and let go. Feel the withering vines snap and fall apart. 

I can almost taste the sweet, invigorating air of my childhood house and can almost feel the embrace, only the place where you feel the safest, can offer. My heartbeat slows and some of the guilt I carry like a cross, lightens. 

I am home.

At Gwaldam, the base camp of Nanda Devi, Kuari Pass, and Roopkund treks, and the land of my birth, I search for provisions, but most places have shut down. I find an open shop and strike a conversation with the man behind the counter. 

“Why are most of the shops closed?” I ask.

“Arrey, madamji, so many bans are in place. Every day is a new ban, a kick to our livelihood. But who can argue with the governments?” he says.

“Yes, that is true.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Just around here and there.”

“Be careful of the forest rangers and read the signboards, madamji. Some trails are closed for now.”

“Acha. Do you have candles and matches, Kaka?”

He hands me a set of candles and a pack of matches. Like a boomerang, his gaze takes in my backpack and returns to me. “Are you familiar with the treks?”

“Yes. I was born in Gwaldam.”

“Oh? Where did you stay?” He squints at me, trying to place me. 

“Do you know Hari Nautiyal?” He enthusiastically nods. “I am his great granddaughter.”

“Arrey! Ranger sahib would buy his items from my shop. My father used to run it then and now I am selling similar stuff to his great-granddaughter! What a coincidence!”

We exchange smiles as he puts everything into my bag. I pay him and he wishes me good luck and places his hand on my head. Thanking him, I move off in search of other open shops. Gathering the provisions, packed food, water, camphor, tents, etc., I spend a fitful night at a homestay. In the morning, I seek permission from Nanda Devi to step on her mountain, to retrace the steps she had taken as she made her way to her husband’s house in Homkund. 

Just like Hari had described, the hike to Roopkund is neither treacherous nor too simple, but a moderate-level hike I am prepared for. All the running sprints while chasing my sorrow have resulted in a fitter me, and my stamina does not desert me. As I climb each foot above the sea level, I feel as if I am chipping at the walls constricting my heart. Breathing slowly becomes a pleasure and not an effort. 

Passing through dense oak, deodar, and rhododendrons forests with so-green-that-it-hurts meadows, and snow-capped mountains, I stop to touch one of the majestic rocks. The ice feels crumbly under my ungloved fingers. The mountain imparts its strength and resilience to me, and despite the increasing chill, I feel energised to continue. As a local, I have hiked on similar trails several times, though not on this one. When we would travel together, I remember Hari drilling this combination of advice and warning. 

“The Himalayas will inspire, but they will not forgive.”

I stop and pitch my tent when the watch hands strike 2.00 p.m., and the fog descends on the trails. The wind outside howls at everything, and it makes the edges of my tent flap violently until I zip them fully. Within the enclosed space, the white sound of the roar is subdued to a murmur. Lying on my back, I look at the fluttering roof as it duels with nature’s fury but wins the battle for now. Propping on my side, I play with the pills’ vial. I flip it over and with a soft pop, all the pellets converge to one side. I flip it to the other side and history repeats itself. The rattle of the tablets and the sighs of the wind help me pass the time. 

Tomorrow, I will leave at 3.00 a.m. and reach the lake before the sun melts the hardened snow, making it dangerous to hike. When we are at the mercy of the mountain, you respect its whims. But for tonight, I will revel in the surrounding solitude that heals me with every icy breath I inhale. 

It is Monday tomorrow. In Chicago, I’d be stressed about work, but here I am at Bhagwabhasa, I think drowsily. I don’t need my pills anymore to sleep; the hike has done its job of loosening the muscles, and I succumb to fatigue. A rare medicine-free sleep. 

The next morning, with the half-moon glittering over the mighty Mt Trishul, I pray once more to Nanda Devi and set off once I finish my tea and biscuits. With the aid of the torch, I avoid the slippery ice patches on the narrow slit-like paths, and after trekking for four unbearable kilometres with the last stretch of 1.5 kms turning out to be dangerous with falling stones, I finally reach my destination. 

I sink to my knees at the breathtaking sight of the water body. With a gush, my great-grandfather’s words rise in my memory. 

“It was like an emerald gemstone. Shiny and just as valuable,” he had said. 

You were right, Hari. You are right.  

I set up camp near the lake where only its edges have residual ice, though the waters are crystal clear. And the air sweeping around is crisp and hovering over freezing temperatures. The peaks peek through the mist into the lake, and I have a grassroots view. I am alone in the area, but I am not lonely. I raise a toast with my cup of tea while staring at the lake.

Several sightless eyes stare back at me. 

Unblinking under the morning sun. White as the snow that’s melted off them. 

Hundreds of human skeletons are strewn all over the place. In the placid lake’s bottom, on its banks, on the paths leading to it, and on the surrounding rocks. People, other trekkers or tourists, have arranged the bones in weird patterns. But they all have something in common, a grinning skull. Well, most of them. Some of them have unhinged jaws.  

Bones, bones, everywhere. Not a bare patch of ground in sight.

Wherever one steps, there is a bone beneath the shoes. Wherever the eyes can see, white ivory protrudes from the ground. I walk around carefully, skipping the visible pieces, and rejoice in the soundlessness of it all. Finally, I am where Hari wanted me to be. At Roopkund Lake with the remains of the people all around me. Any other time, the sight would have freaked me out. To be the sole living person in a virtually open cemetery; but fear is the last emotion I experience. Joy, relief, and peace, maybe. 

At the edge of the lake, I peer in. At its base, I can see more bones and some skulls that are half-buried in the silt. I look around and spot a femur bone, which I use as a stick to doodle on the wet soil. I spot a skull partially buried next to the rock I am sitting on. Idly, I dig into the surrounding area. The wind is picking up and a peek at my watch confirms my suspicion. It is pushing afternoon and close to the time for the daily storms. I pick up speed and excavate the silt around the skull and in no time it is out.

My stomach plummets and rebounds. It is the skull of a child. Or at least, it does not belong to an adult. I pick it up. Sand covers it and snapping my glove off, I lean in and wash it. Examining it, I am confident it is a young person’s skull with its erstwhile face gazing at its watery grave. I leave it where I found it and don my glove again. Temperatures are falling and I need to get back to my tent. I am midway to the tent when I stop and face the lake again. My body experiences a magnetic pull towards the dredged-up, rattling cranium. I skip towards the spot and retrieve it, and hold it to my eye level.

“What is your story, Head?” I ask. It is surprising to hear my voice after the ensuing quiet.

Of course, it doesn’t respond, but the wind answers for it. Get to safety so I can blow with all my force, it susurrates.  

“Always obey the mountain,” I say to the skull, and painstakingly cradle the nob against my bosom, and despite the unspoken warning, I take miniscule steps towards my tent. Scared of dropping it. Scared of losing it again.

Once inside, I place the skull on my upturned bowl. It grins at me, happy to be out in the open, relatively open, so to speak. I return its smile.

“What do we call you?” 

Again, it is the gale that answers. I cock my head until I catch the whispered words.

Sati… Sati… Sati…

With a focal point being the heart, heat spreads through my body, and my hands reach out to caress the bald pate of the skull. 

“The mountains have spoken. You are Sati. My bacha.”

By five, I am tucked into my sleeping bag. I wrap the woollen muffler around my head until a thought strikes me. I half-rise to rummage through my bag and withdraw a pink, fake fur cap. Wrapping it around Sati’s crown, I say. 

“Good night, Sati. I will see you in the morning.” Then sleep takes over.

Hari removes his shoes and chucks me under my chin. 

“Shee! You should wash your hands first, Hari!” the preteen-me says.

A laugh barks out of Hari. “Has my foot become my tutor, eh?” 

Once he finishes eating, we sit by the crackling fire as it casts a flickering glow around us. Hari’s large black-as-coal eyes, so similar to mine, appear more luminous than usual. He pats the cushion next to him and I curl next to him like a cat, feeling the warmth of the flames on my face. While the fire pops and snaps the wood, I breathe in Hari. A hint of smoke and a faint scent of snow hangs over him. I check if anyone is within hearing range, and finding no one; I ask.

“Why did the lake have so many human bones, Hari?”

“We don’t know the exact story, Laudi. The scientists have a few theories.”

“Tell me about them, please?”

He scratches his chin where a five o’clock shadow has birthed a colony of fully grown bristles. “There are many, but the one I think closest to truth is the Raja Kanauj one. The King and Queen were on the Nandi Devi Yatra to pray for a child. Even though many years post their marriage, they remained childless. The Kanauj King was someone highly given to pleasures of … unnecessary pleasures. And along with his entourage, there were some dancing girls and alcohol, too. Lots of alcohol.”

“So, is alcohol a bad thing?”

“If had in moderation, then no. As long as you are controlling the alcohol, it is fine, it is when it controls you, do the issues start. On a pilgrimage, especially one where one is seeking favours, people say if we can give up something we like, the help takes on the flavours of penance. But the king, in his arrogance, did not want to part with his vices. And this angered our local deity, Nanda Devi. She turns the dancers into stone or vanquishes them to Patal Lok. In fact, on the trail, there is even a place called Patra Nauchani.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, Patra means a character, man or woman. Nauchani is a dancer. So, Patra Nauchani would be the dancing girls.”

“Ah! But what about the rest?”

“There was a huge hailstorm with iron-sized balls, and that hit king and the people and they died. At least, that is what the folk songs convey.”

“So, if they had not been needy and greedy and shown respect to Nanda Devi, Roopkund would not have been a skeleton lake?”

Hari’s answer is buried under my mother’s command to me to go to sleep. I kiss his scruffy cheeks and head to bed.

I wake up from my sleep when it is still dark outside, confused about where I am or how old I am. Slowly, the tendrils of reality unfurl and I realize where I am. By the force of habit, my hands clutch my tablets. Dr Rosenstein had prescribed them so I could keep the negative thoughts away. I fiddle with one bottle with its 60 tablets–monthly dosage, as I internally debate if I must continue the medication or not. I turn towards Sati to ask her.

“What do you think, Sati? Should I take my pills?”

Her beaming smile is the answer in itself. I pop the lid and fetch one tablet out. I lean forward and push it into Sati’s open mouth.

“These capsules helped me to get better. Maybe if you take them regularly, it will fix you too?”

Once I freshen up, I eat gruel and head out. Staying cooped inside, I need to sit in the fresh air for a while until the Sun is out. I search for round pebbles and sit by the lakeshore. I skip a stone in the lake and watch as it glides over the surface. The residual eddies remind me of me. Rings around a core. The outer ring represents my friends surrounding my parents, then my husband, and at the centre? The central point where things crumble. Restless, I hoist myself up and pace around the lake. An irrational urge to move away from the lake. Move away from memories.

I explore the area surrounding the water body, hiking a few kilometres away. The invigorating air outside and unease inside drive me to go further (and longer) than I had planned. As if I am punishing myself. Shadows of Mt. Trishul and Mt. Nanda Ghunti race alongside each other and merge at a point where I sit to catch my breath. Leaning against a huge rock, I take in the view. The clear skies with wispy trails of clouds, the air, cold and stingy but clean, the heady aroma of trees, and the playful shadows form and retreat on the mountaintops, revealing and veiling as they slither along. The gentle wind with every caress plucks away at the grief I wear like a plumage around me. One feather at a time. It makes me forget about myself for a few blessed moments.

Behind the rock is another monolithic one. Hidden under the brambles and shrubs is an entrance to a cave. Curious, I step inside to realise it is a long tunnel. The clearing is a musty, decent-sized one where many human skeletons–in relatively undisturbed conditions, are lying around. Squatting to examine them further, I am aware of the hands of the clock tapping against my head. I spend another twenty minutes inside when I force myself to go back to the camp as the howling wind lets its displeasure show. My legs move as close to running as they can and I reach the tent just as the gust is hellbent on exacting its revenge.

I zip the tent’s flaps and face Sati, who patiently waits for me. Rubbing my hands to generate warmth, I ask. 

“How was your day?”

Outside, the mini-storm picks up, and again the roof sways to its whims and fancies. Like I cannot stand against the demands of reality. A quick prayer to Nanda Devi before I eat a protein bar is all I can do to stay put.

“I missed you, Sati. And that is why I hurried home. Maybe you felt lonely.”

I place the wrapper in my makeshift trash can. “I stumbled upon an undiscovered cave. It had many skeletons. Maybe I will go there tomorrow to examine them.”

Tired, I lie on the top of my sleeping bag and rotate my legs to relieve the pain. My lips have chapped, and hunting through the bag, I find an almost empty chapstick. The lover peaks, Mt. Trishul and Mt. Nanda Ghunti, are cranking up their tiff using the draught as their mouthpiece. Slowly, I lose the battle to fatigue and crash.

The small forest behind our house holds my interest. If I could manage, even at night, I would sit amongst the trees, holding imaginary conversations with the oaks and deodars. As an only child, they are my older, wiser siblings. That night, as I tiptoe to the copse, I find Hari, in a purple cassock, sitting in a circle of candles. His eyes are closed and his lips move in a soundless prayer. On a metal plate, a red candle releases a spiral trail absorbed into nothingness, and a gleaming knife with a pearl handle shines in the tottering flame of the candles. A gunny sack lies wriggling next to him. He has not noticed me as I stand in the shadows of the trees. An unexpected burp escapes me and distracts Hari from his chanting. His eyes open and land on me.

“Laudi, come here.”

The eerie atmosphere scares me, and I stay rooted in my place. Hari smiles and beckons with a hand gesture. Slowly, I step over the candles and enter the circle.

“What are you doing, Hari?”

“I am praying.”

“To whom? I don’t see any idols around!”

“We don’t always need to pray to something tangible, Laudi. Many things remain hidden, but it doesn’t mean they do not exist. Prayers and faith, for example. We pray to someone we have not seen, don’t we?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I am praying to Mother Nature. In the end, we come from nature and we must return to her.” 

“But how do you know she is listening to you? With an idol, we can at least communicate with it.”

A laugh leaps out of him. “Even if it’s a deity, we can never be guaranteed that they will listen to us. It rests on our faith. Likewise, it is my belief Mother Nature will listen to me.”

I hesitate, but knowing Hari is wiser than me, I let the doubts and questions wash away. “Can I also join?”

“Of course. Prakriti Parishad welcomes all. But don’t tell anyone else, it will be another secret of ours. Your father is not a believer, and he is already upset with me because of it.”

The squirming sack catches my attention, but Hari holds an index finger to his lips and, with a swift strike of the matchstick, lights an incense stick. The smell of jasmine colours the air. He spreads out his hand, and I place mine in his, and he forms a fist. My hands hide in them. Our eyes meet, and slowly he closes them, and I follow suit. In a low voice, he chants, pausing, so I can repeat.

Great Mother of All,

Source of life and creation,

Nature’s purest form,

I bow to thee with all my heart.

In your forests, I find solace,

In your waters, I find clarity,

In your skies, I find inspiration,

In your earth, I find stability. 

Bless me with your wisdom,

Guide me on your path,

Teach me to live in harmony,

To protect and love, and to nurture the Earth.

At this point, he stops and releases the mouth of the sack, a white hare races out, but Hari nimbly captures it by the scruff of its neck. The hare struggles but is no match for my great-grandfather’s strength. My family doesn’t eat meat, and with a stone dribbling in my stomach, I sense what is going to happen.

Hari picks up the knife and, in one movement, chops the hare’s head off. Blood sprays out and is absorbed in the soil. I recoil as a few drops splash on my cheek. My hands furiously rub the spot to get the stain out. With a look, Hari arrests my movements. He lays the hare down and holds his hands out. His enigmatic gaze nosedives into my indecisive one, and with a shake of his hand, my hands, like magnets to iron filling, find themselves wrapped in his.

I offer to you a token of our respect,

Please accept it as it is a symbol of my love.

With reverence and gratitude, I pray,

To the Goddess of Nature, I say:

Blessed be, dear Naina Devi,

In your love, I shall stay.

We stay seated for a while. I watch Hari mouth more prayers and perform other rituals, but he doesn’t ask me to take part, and freaked out as I am, I am hesitant to offer.

Once he is done, he says. “Don’t forget this is another secret of ours, Laudi. Your father is against ritual animal sacrifice, but our kul devi, she needs one on certain days during a moonless night. I have shown you one ritual, we have many more, but it is your decision to either follow me down this path, or be like your father, who goes against the grain of our culture.”

I wake up with my hands curled around the tablet bottle and I have to take a few deep breaths to let go of the coiled tension in my stomach. I pop a pill into Sati’s mouth and jiggle out of my sleeping bag. After I have had my token breakfast, I set out for the cave where I spend two to three hours exploring the various tunnels of there. Each of them reveals more human skeletons and a few animal ones. Always watchful of the time, I choose to return to the camp before the watch hands strike 2.00 p.m. Loathe to leave Sati in the tent.

The days bleed into each day by waking up with Sati, the exploration of the cave, and spending the rest of the time in the tent. I enjoy the pattern and Sati keeps me company. I narrate all the happening in the cave to her, but I am finding it more and more difficult to leave her alone while I am out. Rummaging through my backpack, I chance upon the twine the shopkeeper had used to tie the candles. I test it for strength, and satisfied, I happily weave it through Sati’s eyes and knot the ends. I pat her head, slip on the pink cap on her head, and retire to bed, tired out by the day.

The next morning, at first light, the wind is unwilling to cooperate. It blows everywhere and stray pieces of bones and pebbles hit the tent sides. The draught wants to show who is more powerful, and I am reminded of the story my mother would narrate, about finding a husband for a female mouse, the mountain, and the wind. Who is stronger? I snuggle back into the bag, waiting for the sulking wind to accept defeat and admit it cannot move the mountains. As an afterthought, I pick Sati from my upturned bowl and hug her to my bosom. A child is always safe and warm with its mother. With the unrelenting pink noise of the wind, I meditate.

After a few hours, the wind has not reached the levels of remorse it needs, and I begin to mind travel. I close my eyes and stay still, slowly relinquishing control to my brain. As long as I am talking, as long as I have a specific focus of some importance, I can function. The noise, however annoying, aided by the pills, had served its purpose in quietening my thoughts. But alone in my sleeping bag without my tablets, my mind churns, and my feet thrash around. Like the peaks outside, I ascend and descend the peaks of despair, depression, and rage. Amidst the trio, anger is the most pervasive emotion. Threading through every feeling, every thought. 

Dr Rosenstein diagnosed me as suffering from a mix of PTSD and postpartum depression, created by my discovery of… the event. My mind unreels it, like an endless loop, from stepping through the bathroom door, the silly song I sing as she sits in the bathtub while I ran the soap over her tiny body to the splashes of water near the tub that my ignorant brain overlooks, and the slipping. The yellow, fat, squeaky duck and the bubbles are the last thing I see when I rise to fetch the towel. 

In the end, it is just the duck that floats. Everything else sinks to the bottom. My memories flow helplessly through the lost histories: one that recurs was when we had brought Sati home. The bubble of happiness, the surety of faith, the belief that nothing can go wrong. That I cannot harm my child, however, unwilling.

When the dust in my head settles, I realise there is silence outside. When the wind blew, it was like an ominous background music to my thoughts, its constant humdrum, in a way comforting. The silence feels oppressive. Everything is still. I unzip the tent and squat out.

Without my realising, it is now night. The full moon stands sentry over the Roopkund Lake, and it spreads its luminescence as a hazy, gossamer-like light. If you touch it, it may burst. The surrounding area glimmers as it is made of sterling silver. The emerald waters shine, coated with a reflected glow. Even the rock with its collection of shining, white skulls glance at me with benevolence in their eyeless sockets.

Nothing stirs. The wind has given up, throwing a trowel. Or maybe it is resting after the tantrum it threw earlier. I remember as a baby, Sati, would cry for no reason whatsoever, for unrelenting hours, and then exhausted by her shenanigans, sleep the sleep of the dead. Maybe the wind too drowned in the waters. 

I pace near the lake. The waters are still, like a corpse. Or like the ones that pepper its edges. The day is gone, the mountains and wind claimed it. Like Hari sacrificing the rabbit, I have sacrificed my day to nature. Unlike the rabbit, I have more days and tomorrow I will go to the cave and maybe even take Sati with me. I can recreate Hari’s ritual. Make today’s sacrifice legit. With the plan in place, I skip to the tent and pack the bag for the next day. Incense sticks, candles, matchsticks, and what else did Hari use? I wrack my brain. Unfortunately, I don’t have a purple gown and I look at my clothes and decide that they will have to do!

In the cave, Sati is nestled against my bosom as I arrange an ad hoc circle of skulls and sit at its centre. Today, the wind is gentle like a new bride. Demure and hesitant. It blows shyly, almost fearful. The covered cave offers warmth and protects me while I arrange everything. I dig deep into my memory and try to remember the prayer that Hari would recite.

I withdraw Sati from my jacket and place her next to me. A child’s place is next to her mother, and she needs to learn the rituals. Like how I did with Hari. I light the incense stick and candles and close my eyes as the words to the hymn crowd my brain and leak through my mouth of their own volition.

Great Mother of All,

Source of life and creation,

Nature’s purest form…

The rest of the prayer flows evenly, and I relax into it. The words coming from within. Since I have nothing to offer as a sacrifice, I offer myself to Mother. I light the last candle and murmur.

I offer to you a token of our respect,

Please accept it as it is a symbol of my love.

Then I hit a roadblock. My words stutter, chasing each other while stumbling over themselves. Which line came after this one? My memory fails to conjure up the words. I take a deep breath and try again, but the elusive lines escape me. I shiver, a panic attack setting in.

If I cannot offer myself to Nanda Devi, how can I expect absolution? I must remember it. I must. I try again by clearing my throat and my mind.

I offer to you a token of our respect,

Please accept it as it is a symbol of my love.

Another line sneaks in.

With reverence and gratitude, I pray,

But nothing after that. The taste of failed bitterness fills my mouth as anger pulsates through me, each breath adding fuel to the fire. A crimson colour stains the canvas of my composure and my erratic heartbeat echoes in my ears. I cannot perform any task. Whether it is bathing my baby or a ritual. I cannot be trusted. This is what had burst out of Kuldeep in a moment of anger and grief. 

You cannot be trusted to do anything, Naina. 

He was right. He is right. The red tide of rage bleaches itself white, and with a force, it shutters my eyes. I lash out at the arrangement in front of me. The candles fall over each other, extinguishing. Blind with anger, my hands move over the surface until they land on an object and with all the strength I possess, I hurl it at the walls. And I scream. Similar to a dupatta billowing in the wind, my screams blow in the cave. And then I cry. Cry like I never did. Cry like I should have at her funeral. Cry like the parent I am. Or was. Cry at how, in one moment, life changed irreversibly.  

When I eventually calm down, I open my eyes, and the surrounding mayhem is shocking. I don’t know for how long I was in the cave. But the wind outside is screeching like a matriarch. I stumble outside, the tendrils of shock still licking me. And made my way to the tent, using the rocks for support. 

Inside, I sit on the heap of my sleeping bag. Gazing at my hands, I see scratches with drops of blood. Quickly, my fingers rush to my chest, where Sati hung. 

Then I remember.

I had placed her by my side. My breath quickens again as I search for her. Where is she? Where is Sati? I left her at the cave. I left her all alone. 

All my life I have been resentful toward my mother. Her NGO was more important than me. Other girls needed her more than me, and it was Hari who filled the void of a mother in me. I remember for every birthday; we used to go to the centre and celebrate it with the other girls. Sometimes, I felt Ma loved them more than me. As if I had a flaw in me that only she could see. Something missing only she could fathom and she found the missing link in the NGO girls. Maybe she had seen the future. Her only flaw was not spending time with me, but at least she didn’t kill me. Like I did. Like I keep doing.

The gale picks up as if it is in a tearing hurry. To go where, to do what I do not know. I sit huddled in the wildly fluctuating tent, staring into nothingness. My hands are in a constant motion. They are searching for the twine that connected me with Sati. 

Sati, my baby. Whom I have left behind to deal with another element of nature. Forgoing water this time for wind. What must she think of me? What must she think of her mother? Why isn’t my mother coming to save me? Can infants assign guilt to their mothers? Or is it an in-built emotion? Does motherhood come attached with guilt? I fling the vial where it strikes the side of the tent and falls in a forlorn leap. My eyes trace each of the thirty-five pills strewn where Sati sat. For so long, I had been healing her with a pill a day, and in one swoop; I destroyed everything. Destroyed Sati.

Each of the thirty-five pills accuses me of crimes anew. And each of them strikes me afresh. 

How could I leave Sati in the cave? She is probably hurt, crying for her mother, and I can’t leave this cloth prison to save her. The wind agrees with me as it screams into my ear, yes… Naina, you are a terrible mother.

The churning inside my stomach matches the gale, swirl by swirl until I can’t take it anymore, and unzipping the tent, I step into the cacophony. The lake is no more placid, and waves are rippling all over each other, as they race their way to the edge, only to retreat and crash into the newer set. Nothing of the lake’s bed is visible, and every skull is in motion, rolling to the whims and fancies of the wind. 

My eyes waters and nose flows, but I can’t go back until I find my Sati. Squinting against the sulking squall, I crank my head down and look for my child amidst the ruins that lay at my feet. I find Sati propped against a small rock near the water’s edge. Someone had placed a stone inside the hollow of her head so she couldn’t join her fellow skulls as they rotated merrily. My heart skipped a beat. 

I have found my Sati!

Unearthing her from the stone, I fight against the storm and make it to the tent. Kneeling as I struggle to unzip it with one hand as the other holds my child. Safe inside the relative quiet of the enclosure, I catch my breath and place Sati over the pile of medicines. She is home. 

Like me, she is also home. My sigh of relief is interrupted mid-exhale as I stare at Sati. It is not my child. I have got a young adult’s skull. What sort of mother doesn’t know her own child from a sea of others?

Gnawing my finger, I dwell on the question as physical strength deserts me. I plonk on the unmade bed and curl up, and with the wail of the keening wind in my head, and build a fort of laments. 

Hari is dressed in the clothes I last saw him in. I don’t know what he wore when he disappeared. Probably another variation of when he usually wore, trousers and shirt. He wakes me up and whispers. 

“Laudi, get up. I know where your laudi is. Get up, Naina.”

I am still sleepy and weakness makes my knees shiver; I lean on Hari as he escorts me out, where we stand near my tent. The shocking silence echoes in my ear. Black. Black is the colour for silence. Black like the night outside. The crescent moon is high in the sky, its feeble light unable to fight against the darkness outside. Hari points at a distance and nudges me.

“There she is. Your Sati.”

I strain my eyes in the dark, hoping the moon would illuminate the area. I cannot spot anything but a vast expanse of snow, bones, and the wind as it skates over the water, leaving ripples in its wake. Suddenly a screech that sounds suspiciously like a trumpet ruptures the air, followed by the sound of cymbals, shehnai, drums, and something else I cannot place. I look at Hari in confusion, but his Zen-like mask gives nothing away. 

In a few minutes, men holding swords atop garishly dressed horses canter into my vision. Who are these men? How did they come here? Why did they come here? The men ignore me, skirting the edge of the lake, intent on their journey. Slowly, more of their procession unveils itself. An elephant, in royal finery, sways side-to-side as it makes its way to the centre. Women dressed in skimpy, translucent clothes with elaborate headgear are dancing around the elephant. Their raised heads go back and forth, and their movements are sensuous, the dresses billowing. My eyes trace their hands as they flitter delicately here and there. Like a butterfly in search of nectar flying around the flower. 

I crank my head up and am surprised to see a king sitting on top of the elephant. A deep blue pagdi-like crown sits on his head as he sips from a golden goblet. A few amber drops fall on his hand and immediately a woman, with a gossamer veil, wipes it off with a satiny kerchief. I am still puzzled by their appearance–almost an apparition in Roopkund. Hari is mute like a pillar, his gaze not moving from my face as if he expects me to say something. I don’t know what he wants me to do. I don’t know what these people are doing here. The hypnotic music–played by musicians trailing the elephant catches my breath and a movement breaks my reverie.

I spot Sati!

She is wearing the dress I had purchased for her from an Indian store in Chicago. It was for her first birthday. A silky peach-coloured ghagra choli with a sequined dupatta. She never had the opportunity to wear it. I killed her before she turned one. But there she is! The skirt swirls around her legs and she chuckles at something I cannot see. 

I can barely see her, but I know it is my Sati. A mother instinctively knows her child. I am about to reach out to her when she spots me. Waving her chubby hands, she starts to make her way toward me. I kneel, laughing. Waiting to hold my baby once again. Thanking Nanda Devi for this gift. For her maternal boon. 

The elephant lets out a blood-curling trumpet. It cannot see Sati who is in its direct collusion path. She is squealing with joy one moment, crashing into the animal and falling the next. The beast raises his giant foot and I cannot breathe. I cannot watch, but I cannot not watch.

The wrecking ball of a foot comes down on Sati’s head. And everything goes quiet. And then the cymbals start again.

Sati’s skull rolls in a haphazard manner. Its grin is directed at me. Its sockets stare at me. The elephant moves on. It doesn’t know or care. The noise of the music fades away, leaving only the stifling quietude. I collapse. Hari is standing where he was. He points at the lake, and like mist in the morning sun, disappears bit by bit.

It is sunny when I wake up. Deathly still. The lake has reverted to its calm state, and the wind is docile as a church mouse as it ferries love notes between Mt. Trishul and Mt. Nanda Ghunti. I drag myself to a sitting position. Like the sunlight, my mind is clear. I know what Hari meant when I saw him in my dreams. Now I understand what he pointed at, or where he disappeared. 

The answer always lay in the lake. And it is why Roopkund Lake called me here. Why Nanda Devi whispered my name! And my heart heard the unspoken call of action. 

I squint into the sun, my lungs evenly inhaling and expelling the air. All around me are remnants of life. Remainders of the bodies they once possessed. 

Hari is waiting for me. So is Sati. I brush off the tiny pebbles of my dress and finger comb my hair and tie them in a loose bun. A smile blossoms across my face and I walk to the lake. 

The bones crunch under my feet, but I don’t evade them. I keep walking. 

I keep walking. Until my feet hit the water. I look at the clear, blue sky. The whispers of the cajoling, comforting wind. The rocky lovers who will never meet. 

And I keep walking.

By Natasha Sharma