The priest continued to stand in the same spot for several minutes. His hands were folded and his head was slightly tilted. He was looking at the spot where Bibi had placed her forehead. There were two wet spots right where she had placed her eyes. With a prayer on his lips, he walked towards them and sat down. ‘She has only you, O Lord. She doesn’t know anyone else. She remembers you day and night and has unflinching faith in you. Please listen to her, look after her and travel with her. Thank you. I am so grateful.’

It was the priest’s last prayer. Soon after, he fell to his side. His eyes were shut, his soul had departed, but his face exuded calmness as if all his prayers had been answered.

Later that evening, the entire village gathered and cremated him with honour. All through the ceremony, Bibi stood in silence as a mute spectator. But she shut her eyes as soon as the pyre was lit and began murmuring, ‘May you be with God, dear Babaji. May your soul be free . . . May you rest in peace . . .’ She bowed gently, turned around and started walking in the direction of her house.

The sun was setting on the far horizon behind the mountains, filling the valley with bright colours. ‘Take me to you, O Lord, but not before I hold my children in a tight embrace. The mother in me still wishes to feed her infant children who were snatched away by destiny. My soul still hurts. I know you are listening. Please help, I pray to you, O Father. Thank you.’

12

Amrit had fulfilled all her duties, as a wife, as a daughter to her birth parents, as a daughter to the parents who had adopted her, her in-laws, and her God. The only thing left for her now was to meet her children. This was what was keeping her alive. And now she was closer to her goal.

As she packed a small handbag of her belongings, she showed no sign of excitement. Her face was as calm as it had always been. She knew this was a ‘do-or-die’ situation; her last opportunity, but she wasn’t agitated or perturbed because she knew her lord was by her side.

She climbed down the stairs and knocked on Allah Rakha’s door. His younger grandchild, Altaf, opened the door and looked at her for a second and then ran inside to inform their father, screaming, ‘Baba . . . Baba . . . Dadi Ma has come.’

Soon Abbas, Allah Rakha’s son, was at the door, welcoming her inside. ‘Please come, please step in, Bibi. So happy to see everything has finally fallen in place.’