They emerge from the kalyanakatta, and the light dazzles their eyes. With no hair, their faces look more alike than ever. They seem younger, too, and more fragile. They hold hands and smile at one another. They have come this far. The miracle has been accomplished. Smita knows that Vishnu will keep his promise. A new life awaits them, tomorrow, with her cousins in Chennai.

Smita walks toward the Golden Sanctuary, with Lalita’s hand in hers. She feels no sadness. No, truly, she is not sad, because she is certain of one thing: they have made their gift, and Vishnu will show his thanks.

Giulia

Palermo, Sicily

They did not know it was impossible, so they did it.

Giulia remembers Mark Twain’s phrase, the one she had read and loved as a child. She thinks about it today, as she waits on the tarmac at Falcone Borsellino Airport. She feels moved, waiting for the plane that will change their lives. It is coming from so far away, bringing their first shipment of hair.

Papà never woke up. He died that day, in hospital, while she sat in the chair beside him, after the strange dream that she would remember for the rest of her life. When it was time to go, he had pressed her hand, as if to say goodbye. As if to say, Go on. He had passed her the baton and left this life. Giulia knew that. While the doctors had tried to resuscitate him, she had promised him that she would save the workshop. It was their secret, his and hers.

She had insisted on holding the funeral in the chapel Papà loved. Her mother had protested – it was too small for everyone to have a seat, she said. Pietro had so many friends, he was always so popular, and there was all the family too, from every corner of Sicily, and the workers … None of that mattered, Giulia told her. Anyone who loved him would stand. Her mother had given in, eventually.

She hardly recognized this new daughter: Giulia, who was ordinarily so well behaved, so self-contained, so docile, had become strangely obstinate. She was gripped by a new determination. She had stubbornly refused to give up her fight for the workshop. To break the deadlock, Giulia had suggested allowing the women to vote. It had been done elsewhere, she said, in other businesses under threat. They had every right to be consulted, it affected them, too. Her mother agreed, and her sisters had accepted the idea.

The vote took the form of a secret ballot, to avoid the younger women being influenced by their elders. The workers were invited to choose between a new direction for the workshop, with imported hair from India, or its closure and a negotiated redundancy package, with a small sum as compensation. The first solution involved an element of risk, of course: an uncertain outcome that Giulia made no effort to conceal.