I trail off as Ramita lets go of me and shoves her chair backwards, an utterly stunned expression on her face. I’m thinking that I’ve scared her when she hisses, “You hear someone speaking that you are the chosen of Danteshwari? Tell me the exact words, Christine! Tell me now!”
Startled out of my tears by her shocked expression, I begin to utter the words that over the course of thirty nights have become imprinted indelibly on my brain. “Behold — you are the chosen ones of Danteshwari. Embrace the blessings and the rebirth she offers you now…” At this point, Ramita joins in and we speak them together, “Open your heart and know love for all eternity. Accept the sacred gifts of love and family and be as one.” I am the one shocked now and I am staring silently as Ramita finishes the words.
“You are the blessed of Danteshwari!” Ramita stares at me now silently with an expression somewhere between horror and awe.
“How did you know?” I whisper. My voice rises and cracks as I say, “Tell me what’s happening, Ramita!”
My good friend opens her mouth and then closes it. She lowers her head and I can see that she is shaking. “This cannot be. How can you…” Ramita lifts her head, her dark eyes now ablaze. “How is this possible, Christine. You are American. This should not be happening. These dreams — they are not for you.”
I reach out and take hold of her wrists, gripping them tightly. I can barely keep myself under control as I whisper to her, “How did you know those words? How can you know what I’ve been dreaming?”
Ramita stares at me for a long time. Finally she whispers back, “Because, Christine. I too am having those dreams.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “That is not possible. No one shares their dreams.”
Ramita gives me a tentative smile. “They do, my dear, if the dreams are of a divine origin. Danteshwari sends us these dreams.”
“Danteshwari?” I again shake my head. It doesn’t make sense. I recognized the name from the time of my first dream, it is a local deity. Many miles outside the district capital, Jagdalpur, there is a famous temple dedicated to Danteshwari and there is an annual celebration of her — she is a female and motherly aspect of the Hindu Gods. Despite of my love of this place and my acknowledgement and acceptance of their faith, I find myself suddenly confronted with the truth that I never really accepted that there could be other gods within the world.
Ramita puts a finger to my lips and shushes me. “Hush now, Christine. We must not speak of it further. I must consult Naija, she will know what to do.”
Naija is an old woman in the village — perhaps the oldest woman in the village, although nobody knew her true age. She is the local midwife and is considered a wise woman, maybe even a holy woman. In truth, she might be the most influential person in the village, maybe within the whole region. She has an incredible amount of influence. It was only when she brought her great, great granddaughter to my school that others in the village warmed to it and made it a success. Every Sunday, she sits on the front row in our little church and listens intently to Joseph’s sermons, a slightly perplexed expression on her face as she strives to make sense of our faith. I cannot blame her, it doesn’t always make sense to me.