Chapter 6: Over Arching Introduction

Over the heads of watching fishermen on board the small Indian fishing junker the Nada Harashnu, a smoking orange fireball plummets to the ocean halfway to the horizon. They hear its roar as it passes overhead, but they see it hit the water several moments before the terrific sound of its impact reaches them.

The plume of water it sends into the air casts a shadow a quarter of a mile across the dawn, and the fishermen stare wide-eyed at it, the boat wallowing on the gentle but irregular chop typical of these waters.

Thirty seconds later the bow of the shockwave rushes to meet them, a gust of air preceding the sudden swell of water. The boat rises, suddenly driven upwards by the wave coursing underneath it. The small waves that had gently rocked the boat a moment ago are shaken from the surface of the water as the low parabolic flies outward. The boat’s sudden rise drives the fishermen to their knees as their very world moves violently at the whim of the shockwave surging through the water beneath it.

Though powerful, the shockwave begins to dissipate quickly as it expands outwards. The fantastic energy that had driven the meteor, like a javelin, through our atmospheric shield finally sighing its last breath as it is absorbed by the ocean’s depths. It is reduced, in the end, to a gentle spreading swell as it rolls outward to wash unseen on distant beaches.

As the southern Indian fishermen look to each other for reassurance the water lowers again and settles around them, their ship gently swaying, as though the boat is as dazed by the experience as its crew. As far as the eye can see the ocean is now perfectly smooth, as though the hand of God has grasped the very corners of their world and shaken the wrinkles out, the shockwave like the waft of air flowing under a tablecloth as it settles down on the proverbial table beneath.

* * *

Though her mother did not know it, she had just made all of young Sowmya’s dreams come true. Sowmya may not understand all the things they said at school, but she knew, for certain, that no day in her life would ever be as wonderful as today, two days before her sixth birthday. In her arms, too precious to wear, nearly too wonderful to touch, lay a sari. A new sari: purple with red stitching and gold sequins. It was obvious to Sowmya that it was by far the most beautiful sari ever made, and Sowmya marveled how her mother had accomplished such a thing when she had discovered it.