Train to Agra

Stardust

 Stardust Under the heavy rope of my hair I will wear a black dot on my nape behind my left ear, but it won’t save me. It’s supposed to ward off the evil eye, stop anyone from stealing my happiness with one glance. Even my aunt with a Shree and an Om laying hands on me like a seer, until I am a sacrament, something almost holy, can’t save me.The Ganesh on my desk, sent from a crowded street stall, sent by a woman who knows about luck, who can see good fortune in a damp palm, in the set of someone’s teeth, won’t do any good. I’ve prayed to Ganesh, Mr. Good Luck himself, spent time laying flowers and rice at his steely feet, yet nothing can change how the set of the stars writes my story. My mother prays every night to the monkey god, the god of her household, as I try to reconstruct the past—reading more from the shape of a seven, the curve of a two than anyone intended—and it’s hard. Reconstructing. Inventing. Putting things back into place, out of place, out of time. I’m making things up. Anything to cheat the stars, that old astrologer’s poor sight. I can hear my aunt praying into my hair, oiling  it to a fine rain in her hands. Each tug tells me not to forget the dust beneath my feet, the fan clicking its head like a negligent bird turning to catch sight, ruffling us with its breath. ...