Chapter 1: Masks and Memories

In the fifteen years since I found myself in this new life, I have always been careful—never daring to let anyone see that I was different from those around me. Not even when the smell of frying onions drifted through the house, or when the distant sound of the temple bell made my cousins pause their gossip.

In those fifteen years, not once did I allow my mask to slip, not even in front of the ayahs or my own cousins, who always seemed to have sharp eyes and tongues sharper than green chillies. I would swallow my modern ways, walk quietly with my dupatta perfectly in place, tucking the end over my head whenever an elder passed. I made sure no aunt or neighbour ever found cause to gossip. In this house, amid the clatter of bangles and the constant hum of gossip near the kitchen, blending in was an art of survival. Even the crows on the neem tree, harbingers of news in Amma’s stories, seemed to know to keep their cawing discreet, warning me to stay vigilant.

But on the day of my thread ceremony, my mother took out a small notebook and told me that a daughter must be even more sensible.

She didn’t fuss with the rituals or insist on ornate saris. Instead, after the pandit had left and the camphor smoke still curled in the morning light, with a WhatsApp ping faint in the background, she drew me into her room where the scent of sandalwood and old books mingled. Her fingers were steady, her eyes sharp as the edge of a new kitchen knife as she produced a little diary with a faded cover. She sat down with a sigh, the kind only women who have seen too much can make, and said in that gentle but firm voice, “Beta, a daughter needs to be doubly sensible in this world.”

She spoke to me about having an independent mind, about women’s rights, about Swami Vivekananda and the importance of science.

Each word she spoke seemed to hang in the air, heavier than the gold chains tucked beneath her saree. She spoke with the authority of someone who had read not just Tagore but the Upanishads, who knew stories of Sarojini Naidu and heard about Annie Besant in the market. As she spoke of Vivekananda’s Chicago speech, her eyes glowed. “A woman’s mind is her own, and no one can take that from her, Jiya,” she said, her thumb absently tracing the notebook’s edge. “Remember, only by knowledge and courage do we grow.”

The more I stared at those black words, the redder they seemed to become.

On the pages, her careful handwriting leapt out—phrases underlined in red ink, some smudged by tears perhaps. Each syllable seemed to vibrate, as if demanding I pay attention. The sunlight from the jharoka caught on the words, making them glow a fierce maroon—like the sindoor on Ma’s forehead. A strange shiver ran down my spine, and my throat dried up.

Oh, Mother—are you a reborn soul too?

Was she, too, carrying secret memories, hidden behind her calm smile and quiet grace? For a moment, I imagined a thread connecting our hearts, stretching across lifetimes. I almost wanted to reach out and ask in a whisper, “Did you once stand where I did, in another age?”