Chapter 11: The Ashram’s Secret

As dawn broke, my mother opened the door, took some yellow paper, and burned it in our backyard.

She walked into the cold morning light, shivering a little, the hem of her saree dragging in the dew. She tore sheets of yellowed paper from an old notebook, and set them alight in a clay pot, watching the flames curl hungrily.

She squatted on the ground, small and curled up.

She hugged her knees to her chest, her back hunched. She faced the firelight, murmuring something. Hot tears dripped into the flames, making them burn even brighter.

I guessed, perhaps she was reporting to her fallen comrades.

Maybe she was telling them, “We did it. Your sacrifice was not in vain.” Maybe she was asking them to watch over us, to bless the world we were building.

After the bullock cart left the city gate, I was still so sleepy I could barely open my eyes.

The bullock cart rumbled along, the straw scratching at my legs. The early morning air was cold, and I yawned, rubbing my eyes as the city faded behind us. The world was hushed, the only sound the rhythmic creak of wooden wheels and the distant calls of birds.

“Mother, where are you taking me?”

I mumbled, my head lolling against her shoulder. She smiled, tucking my shawl around me tighter.

My mother blinked. “To the ashram.”

Her answer was mysterious, her eyes twinkling with mischief. I sat up, curiosity jolting me awake.

“Huh?” I perked up. “Mother, wait—are there more people like us?”

I clutched her arm, excitement bubbling up. Could there really be others? Was there a whole secret society of reborn souls, quietly working for change?

…

After getting out of the cart, in front of me was a very ordinary bungalow.

The house was plain, whitewashed, with a sloping roof and a little veranda. A faded rangoli pattern still clung to the doorstep, and the air was thick with the scent of agarbatti. Chickens pecked in the yard, and a stray dog napped in the sun. There was nothing grand or mysterious about it—at first glance.

But once inside, the person who greeted me was actually Amma Lakshmi, who’d been sent away the previous year.

The last time I saw Amma Lakshmi, she was leaving with a cloth bundle, head bowed, tears streaming down her cheeks. Now, she stood tall, eyes bright, her smile wide and genuine. She wore a fresh gajra in her hair, the jasmine scent following her everywhere.

That time, she’d accidentally broken the diya my grandmother used for puja.

The diya was a family heirloom, with delicate silverwork, kept on the highest shelf of the prayer room. Amma Lakshmi had knocked it over while dusting, and it shattered with a horrible clang.

I remember it clearly—my grandmother was furious.

Dadi’s face turned red, and her voice thundered through the house. “This girl is a curse! Useless!” she shouted, waving her stick. The other servants cowered in fear.

That diya had cost a hundred rupees.

“A hundred rupees, gone just like that!” my grandmother wailed, clutching her head. The neighbours came running to see what the fuss was about.

In front of the puja room, my grandmother personally whipped her and wanted to have her sent to Lucknow as a labourer.

The beating was merciless. Even now, I remember the sound of the stick, the cries echoing through the house. Dadi declared she would send Lakshmi away as punishment, to teach her a lesson.

My mother intervened, even freeing her from service and letting her leave the household.

My mother stood between them, her voice calm but firm. She insisted that Lakshmi be released, her wages paid in full. It was unheard of—servants were rarely freed so easily.

My grandmother thought my mother was being disobedient and wanted to punish her, but when the story spread, everyone praised my mother’s kindness, so my grandmother let it go.

The neighbours were scandalised at first, but soon the story was twisted into praise. “Such a large-hearted woman! May her daughters be blessed!” they said, and Dadi, mindful of her own reputation, had to back down.

Amma Lakshmi was overjoyed to see me, kept exclaiming how much I’d grown.

She hugged me, her hands warm and rough, her voice trembling with emotion. “You’ve become so tall, Jiya! Your mother must be so proud.”

I was happy to see her too, but even more curious.

I grinned back, but my mind was buzzing. What was Amma Lakshmi doing here? How had her fortunes changed so quickly?

It felt as if she’d come alive.

There was a glow about her now—a light in her eyes, a spring in her step. She looked years younger, her skin clear, her laughter easy.

When she was a servant at home, she always seemed grey and lifeless—not dirty, but as if her spirit was dimmed.

She’d move quietly, eyes downcast, her voice little more than a whisper. The world had not been kind to her.

Now, still in plain cotton saree, her whole being was bright and full of life.

She wore the same simple clothes, but she walked with confidence. There was pride in the way she spoke, a new dignity in her bearing.

Amma Lakshmi shyly told me that after being driven out, no one would take her as a maid, and she had no skills.

She confessed, “At first, I thought my life was finished. No one wanted me, and I didn’t know anything but housework. I was ready to give up.”

My mother found her, gave her food, and taught her to read.

Ma took her in, fed her, and put a book in her hands. “Every woman should know how to read, Lakshmi,” she said, and slowly, with patience, taught her the letters and words.

Now she could be a teacher and teach others.

She beamed with pride, “Now, I teach small children! Me, a teacher!” Her voice quivered, and I saw tears in her eyes.

She led me to the backyard, where the house had been converted into two classrooms.

The back veranda was transformed: low benches, slates and chalk, and children chattering in small groups. The air smelled of fresh ink and hope. Children’s laughter spilled out into the lane, mixing with the distant honk of a cycle rickshaw.

One room was full of children learning to read, the other had an old master teaching older kids to weave cloth.

Boys and girls alike hunched over books, their faces alight with curiosity. In the next room, looms clattered as older children learned to weave, the sound rhythmic and comforting.

I sidled up to my mother, raised my eyebrows, and whispered, “Comrade Meera, your underground work is thriving.”

I grinned, my voice teasing. My mother rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched in a smile. I knew she loved my jokes, even if she pretended to scold me.

My mother shook her head, helpless. “Thank you for the organisation’s praise.”

She tried to look stern, but I saw the pride in her eyes. We shared a secret smile, the kind that only fellow conspirators understand.

I froze.

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, we were both children again, giggling at some private joke.

“Hahahahahaha!”

I couldn’t help it—the laughter bubbled out of me, loud and joyful. Some of the children looked up, startled, then grinned back.

My sudden laughter startled my mother.

She shot me a mock glare, trying to look stern, but her cheeks were pink with embarrassment.

She glared at me and left me behind as she went into a side room.

She swept away in a huff, but I saw the smile she tried to hide. I followed her, trying to stifle my giggles, feeling lighter than I had in years.