From Shimla, I had turned northwest, in the direction the children at the clinic had told me to go. It’s the same route our tribe always takes to get to the Kangra Valley, and it makes sense my brother would have chosen this trail. When I arrive at the spot where the children told me they had found the sheep, I stop. I spot the tiny stone temple they told me to look for; it’s the size of an armoire. Hindus have erected many such miniature temples throughout the Himalayas. The path I’ve been on and the one before me are wide enough for ten goats or ten sheep to pass. But directly across from the temple, to my left, is a canyon separating two steep inclines. There, through a small gap, I spot a narrower, rougher trail, lined by boulders and rocks on either side. My instinct tells me that, for his purposes, my brother would have favored this smaller, more secluded trail over the wider, more exposed path. I look for sheep droppings, and when I find them, I poke them with my stick. They are slightly soft, which means the sheep have recently been on this trail. The droppings on the wider path are dry.
Neela bleats. I imagine she’s calling to the other sheep in the area. But there’s no answer. She starts toward the gap. I’m about to follow her when my ears catch the faint sound of hoofbeats. Sound can travel far in these mountains, and the rider may yet be miles away. Even so, I am a woman alone with my children on a deserted path—not something I’m used to. I know this is more dangerous than when I traveled with my tribe. I gently nudge Rekha forward through the gap, then urge her to move faster once we’re on the narrow trail. Chullu wakes up, and I pull a rag wet with my milk from my blouse to quiet him; there’s no time for me to nurse him.
Once we’re past the first few boulders, I look back. From here, we’re partially hidden, and I’m feeling safer. Rekha has gone ahead to keep up with Neela. We continue like this for a while, until I look ahead of me and see Rekha freeze. Her shoulders tense. Has she seen a snake?
I rush to catch up with her. “Rekha!” And then I see what looks like a sack of cloth up ahead. I grab Rekha by the shoulders, turn her round and tell her to stay back. I approach the bundle carefully. Neela follows me, bleating more insistently now.
It’s not a bundle. It’s a body, lying facedown. A shepherd, dressed like most male shepherds: a wool jacket and pants, his head wrapped in layers of cloth. His left leg juts out at an unnatural angle and there’s a large tear in his pants. One foot is bare, the bones flattened as if a giant boulder crushed them. All at once I’m cold and hot.
I squat, feel his neck for a pulse. It’s faint, but it’s there.
I say a prayer. Please don’t let it be Vinay.
Then I roll him over, gently, faceup. His nose is broken, caked with blood; there is a deep gash across his forehead. His eyes are swollen closed, his mouth slack.
It’s him.
To stop myself from crying out, I slap both hands over my mouth. I can’t speak, but the thoughts run through my head: Vinay! I didn’t want to believe it was you carrying the gold! Why? That’s the very thing we were taught not to do: smuggle gold and your family will pay the cost. What will become of Arjun and Sai? Who will keep your sons safe now?
Vinay had always been the dreamer, the one who felt the life he was born to was not the one that he deserved. He always wanted more than he was given. When my father died, as the younger of two brothers he received fewer animals than my older brother, Mahesh. And only sheep; the more expensive goats now belonged to Mahesh. Vinay received less silver, too.
No wonder Vinay always thought life was unfair. When Dev died, and I told my father-in-law that I would stay in Shimla instead of joining our tribe for their migration north, Vinay had uttered something under his breath. I’d pretended not to hear, but his words come back to haunt me now, clear and sharp: Well, you got away, didn’t you?
Was it my departure that had pushed Vinay to forswear his duty to our tribe? To carry gold for racketeers so he could live a life he felt would be superior to the one our tribe could offer him?
I put my mouth against his ear. “Bhai, can you hear me?”
His lips move. Quickly, I untie the sling holding Chullu and lay my son down next to me. I remove the goatskin bag, filled with water, from my waist and hold it up to Vinay’s parched lips with one hand. With my other hand, I lift his head carefully so he can drink. He gulps greedily but most of the water drips down the sides his mouth. I wipe it away with my hands.
“Tell me how this happened.”
No response.
How long has he been lying here? I’m wondering if I can move him, take him back with me to Shimla and the Lady Bradley Hospital?
Now he’s speaking. “Po—t,” he says.
I lean in so close I can smell the staleness of his breath. “We need to get you to the clinic. Dr. Kumar will take care of you.”
Vinay tries to shake his head, but the movement is too painful. He grimaces. “Poc—poc—t.”
I’m trying to think clearly, but my thoughts are jumbled. If his back is broken, I can’t carry him; he’s far too heavy. With the children, it would take me hours to walk back to Shimla. I can’t go on my own and leave the children with Vinay. What should I do?
“Pocket.” He says it with more force this time.
With shaking hands, I rifle through his pockets. He’s carrying his pouch of tobacco, and a few sharpened twigs to clean his teeth. I’m breathing hard, trying not to cry. “Bhai, what am I looking for?”
He tries to point, but he can barely move his arm. “Inside,” he manages to say.
I search until I feel the edge of something solid in the inside left pocket. I turn the pocket inside out and see a tiny home-sewn pouch attached to it. I tug and rip the pocket open with my fingernails and find a matchbox. Bright yellow, printed with an image of Lord Ganesh. I turn it over. I recognize the English script imprinted on the back, but I can’t read it.
“You wanted matches?” I ask, incredulous.
Before he speaks, he runs his tongue along his chapped lower lip. “The go—gold.”
“Vinay, I need to get the doctor.”
“Shee—p.”
I look around, but I see only Neela in the clearing. “I don’t see them, Vinay. Where are the sheep?”
“Keep...” he says. He’s using every ounce of energy he has left to talk. “My sons...”
His lips are moving, but he makes no sound. His body shudders once, and then again, before his mouth yawns open and the breath escapes.
I press my ear to Vinay’s nose, but now there isn’t any breath. Still, the air is thick with his spirit. My children feel it. Chullu starts to fuss. Rekha pulls on my sweater. “Maa?”
I pick Chullu up and stand, taking comfort from his body, from its warmth. I cup the back of Rekha’s head, and she holds tighter to me. There is no need to shield the child from death; we do not do that in my tribe. We want our young to understand that death is as natural as life for man and animals alike, and the sooner they’re aware of that, the better.
“You remember your uncle, bheti?”
She nods.
“He is no more.”
Rekha looks up at me, then back at her uncle’s body on the ground. She puts her thumb in her mouth, a habit she had shaken a year ago.
Chullu nuzzles my breasts. I should feed him, but first I must take care of something else. Again, I wet Chullu’s rag with my milk, and he takes it in his mouth and sucks on it. I set him down on the sling lying on the ground and tell Rekha to watch him. Then I sit next to Vinay, take his dusty hand in mine. I murmur incantations learned in the womb, long before I entered this world. I ask our gods to look after my brother in the realm of spirits, to give him the new life he deserves, to help his soul maintain harmony with those who came before him and those who will follow him. I repeat the words until they become one with the air we’re breathing.