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49 TAJ MAHAL The฀yoga฀teacher’s฀bones฀are฀pure as฀unbleached฀cotton,฀the฀stuff of฀yoga฀mats,฀as฀if฀she฀builds herself฀from฀scratch every฀Tuesday฀at฀the฀Y. The฀teacher฀moves฀from฀Cat to฀Downward฀Facing฀Dog,฀reminding฀me that฀India’s฀a฀real฀place฀where฀strays outnumber฀pets.฀When฀my฀cousin฀Beth came฀back฀from฀the฀Assembly฀of฀God Mission฀Station฀in฀Calcutta, she฀was฀light฀as฀a฀straw฀hat, and฀scary-skinny.฀I฀wondered฀if฀Jesus would฀ever฀give฀her฀heart฀back. She฀brought฀me฀a฀soapstone฀Taj฀Mahal, but฀she฀didn’t฀want฀to฀talk, though฀she฀promised฀to฀“keep฀me in฀her฀prayers.” ฀฀฀฀฀How฀could฀I฀say฀no฀thanks? Some฀Tuesdays฀when฀I฀fail to฀touch฀my฀head฀to฀my฀knees, Beth฀veers฀into฀view,฀a฀cousin drowning฀in฀the฀burning฀Ganges, a฀grown฀girl฀whose฀DNA฀is฀shorn of฀its฀human฀strands,฀like฀an฀angel in฀a฀cathedral,฀the฀kind฀with฀blank stone฀eyeballs.฀If฀I฀do฀yoga฀for฀weeks, my฀hands฀will฀finally฀reach฀my฀toes and฀I’ll฀know฀what฀I฀already฀know: prayers฀aren’t฀cages,฀tombs,฀or฀fridges, and฀no฀one฀can฀keep฀us฀there, because฀we’re—all฀of฀us—moving from฀Dog฀to฀Bird฀to฀Air. ...

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