“Since times so ancient, they have fallen out of memory, there has been a pact between our goddess, Danteshwari and this village. Once every generation, she marks the worthy women who have lost their husbands to receive her blessings. That holy time has come again.” The old woman glances over at Ramita. “Ramita is one who is so blessed. Ten years she has been a widow, her husband tragically lost.”
I nod. I know this. Ramita’s husband had been killed in a train wreck several years ago, leaving Ramita a widow with two children, her oldest Bimal and a younger daughter.
“And so it is with the blessing of Danteshwari. Those bereft of marriage and who prove worthy are offered a blessing from the mother Danteshwari, in remembrance of service long ago. Ramita’s dreams are the mark of Danteshwari. She does not dream alone. Others in the village have also been so blessed.” Naija names other women of the village. I recognize a few; Nilaya whose husband abandoned her and their four children and disappeared into the vast population of New Delhi, and Mamata, another widower, her husband killed in military service.
“But, Naija, why me?” I implore her. “I am not Hindu, I am an American and I am married. My husband is here, he’s alive.”
The old woman shrugs. “One does not question the wisdom of Danteshwari. You are of our village now — who cares where you come from.” She pauses and looks deep into my eyes. “And as to your marriage, tell me now the truth, daughter Christina. Tell me your marriage is alive. Tell me your marriage has not died of your husband’s neglect.”
I feel my face burn with shame and with anger. Naija leaned in so close, I can feel her warm breath. “Is your marriage dead, Christine Matthews?”
I feel tears running down my face, leaving searing tracks on my skin. “Yes,” I whisper. “It’s been dead for a long time.” I begin to cry and am surprised to feel the arms of the old woman close around me. Her arms are strong and she pulls me against her and lets me cry myself out.
When I am done, she looks down at me, her eyes blazing with a holy light. She turns to Ramita and nods. “She has the Mark of Danteshwari. The holy mother has decreed it.”
“What does that mean,” I ask, still sniffling. “What do these dreams mean? Are they going to stop? How can we all be sharing the same fucking dream?” I stop suddenly. I am shouting and I did not mean to curse in front of this old woman.
Naija smiles and pats my cheek. “Stop asking questions. Simply accept what is to come. In a fortnight, all answers that you seek will be yours. There is a…rite that must be observed and that you must participate in. Once it is completed, your dreams will end. At dusk the first night of the full moon, Ramita will come for you and you will have your answers.”
The old woman turns and hobbles towards the door. “Walk me home, Ramita. I am old and tired and there is so much to do.” I try and say more, but she turns and puts an old gnarled finger to her lips. “Shhhhh, Christine. Be patient. For now, it must suffice for you to know that you are not insane.” She gives me a big, mostly toothless smile and says, “Have joy, daughter. You are blessed of Danteshwari. It is a most wondrous thing!”