Read an Excerpt

At last, the relentless monsoon rains of summer end. Rivers, swollen and furious, race from the mountains to the sea. The rays of the long-missed sun wedge through the tangled jungles bordering every village, waking all of creation with light. Claiming small kingdoms, the koels, cuckoos, sing one over another while the last drops of water on their feathers vanish with the dawn. The lowing of cows, oxen, and buffalo fills out the bass notes of the chorus. Giddy children spill out of the doorways and run into the sunshine. On this first day of clear-blue skies, they know to seek out their pauranika, their village storyteller, Lakshmi, for she will have some special tales to celebrate the day. And maybe tonight, they hope, she will begin a days-long story from one of the holy epics—the Ramayana or the Mahabharata, the Vishnu Purana or the Shiva Purana. Rising from her bed, Lakshmi, the storyteller, smiles at the hubbub of creatures. Out her window she glances at the rain-plump rice fields blazing green in the daylight. “Hunger will gain no foothold this year!” she says aloud to herself.

She showers, dries off, dresses in a sky-blue sari, then examines her face in the mirror, chuckling at her wrinkles—the tiny bird feet that have perched at the edges of her eyes. Opening a small ceramic pot, she dips an index finger in the vermilion powder to make a bright red tilak, a small decorative circle, on her forehead between her eyebrows—the tradition of Hindu women from ancient times. Tilting her head, she brushes her long, black hair one side at a time before braiding it, noticing that the fine strands of silver are multiplying. Because they show the gift of years, she is grateful for each one. Next, Lakshmi takes a few minutes to complete the daily puja, her home worship, and then steps outside. From the flower garden just beyond the front door, she fills her basket with blossoms. Today, Friday, is an auspicious day, and she will pay a visit to the village temple with her collection. Only a few minutes’ walk from home, the temple’s granite walls look more a part of nature each year, shrubs and vines sprouting from the crevices in the mortar. But as soon as she nears the temple mandap, or pavilion, the village children spot her and she’s surrounded. They tug at her sari, jostle and cajole her, until she can make no further progress forward. “Tell us a story, Amma!” they say, calling her Mother as they do all the older women in the community. “Tell us a really good story, but not too long, because our parents are expecting us home for breakfast!” Lakshmi looks down at eager faces. The young adults—including her youngest son and daughter—have abandoned the village to pursue jobs in the big cities, so she knows it to be her life’s task, before these young ones disappear, to make sure they carry within them an ocean of stories to see them through life.