ANURADHA stood at the water’s edge, staring wistfully at the dark waters of the restless river.

The wind moaned as it whipped past her, as though the voices of those who had perished during the long journey were calling from the depths. She stretched her arms out, as the water lashed against her lithe body, her long dark brown hair falling loosely down her back, in her hazel eyes, the pain she felt for those souls. It had been a long time since the last ship came, but every year, on this day, a strange calling from afar would beckon her to the water’s edge.

In the beginning, she did not understand the visions of the strange ship and the little girl on board, a scared and uncertain look in her big brown eyes. But as time went on and she grew older, her mother explained it all as episodes of a past life replayed in her mind. The little girl on the ship, Anuradha was told, was her grandmother, Armatie, who came to this land many decades ago, from India in the East. She often wondered why she felt this deep love for a place she never saw or lived in and was enchanted so much by its culture, its people, the devotees of a rich religion, the spices and silk, the divinity of songs, and mesmerizing dances.

Her dreams and visions made it so real, for she was, in her mother`s words, a re-born soul. The yearning to return, Anuradha now understood, but she was mystified by the intense desire she felt she had to fulfill. Her father had said to her when she was just eight years old, “When you’re sixteen, I’ll take you back home.”

The time was now. The little girl who had crossed the dark waters of the Kala Pani, as Armatie, many decades ago, was returning as Anuradha, across the seas for home where her story began. The journey by air was long, but Anuradha couldn’t sleep. The anxiety in her heart grew stronger as they got closer and she saw vividly in her mind the dusty village, the mud huts, the Shiva statue on the hilltop, and the gun-guru bells.

Her eyes closed for a short moment and, for the first time, she saw the vision of a baby she was holding and she whispered, “Aarti,” and sat up with a start.

The plane landed and Anuradha holding on tightly to her mother’s and father’s hands, stepped out with trembling legs, her heart thudded against her chest. A gust of cold wind touched her face and she smiled as her feet touched the motherland. An exult feeling ran through her entire being and she laughed and cried as she knelt to kiss the earth, Armani’s last words echoing in her head, “I will return to you, dear mother, my feet will walk again on the sacred earth.”

This was home, this was where she belonged. She had longed so much to return, and now her spirits felt free, her heart rejoiced as the train roared through the countryside to the district of Mirzapar from where she came, the passing landscapes, the villages, the people she looked at in awe.

It was almost dusk when they reached the small village of Fathaha nestled between two hills.

Anuradha stood for a while, not sure where she was, for it had changed so much. There were no mud huts or roads but new houses, shops, and a cinema. She walked tentatively to where her family’s mud hut had stood and smiled as she recalled her mother cooking on her earthen stove – a poor life, yet so rich in memories. A neat, new house stood there and before Anuradha called, the door opened and a young girl stared at her curiously. Anuradha smiled, not knowing what to say. Too much time had passed, there was probably no one she knew, still alive. She closed her eyes, and turned to go when she heard a weak, soft voice whisper, “Armani.”

Anuradha gasped, not sure she heard right. The little girl took her hand and beckoned her inside. In the middle of the small sitting room, surrounded by her family, an old, feeble woman lay in a cot.

The vision of a baby she held in her arms flashed back in Anuradha’s mind and she cried, “Oh my god.”

It was her baby sister who had been too young to make the journey.

She dropped to her knees, tears spilling from her eyes, “Aarti, you’re still alive!”

“I was waiting for you. You promised me you would come back.” She said in Hindi, her voice barely audible.

The old woman handed her a piece of old, worn paper and on it was written in a childish scribble, “I will return.”

“I’m so sorry.” Anuradha cried. She now understood, the deep yearning to return, that the rebirth of Armani’s soul was to fulfill her promise to her baby sister.

Now Aarti felt she could die in peace. Her waiting was over, for her sister had returned to sing the songs she had sung such a long time ago.

Anuradha put on her gun gurus as the village celebrated the return of one of its children.

Tonight, she would dance for Lord Shiva, for her new family, for Mother India, the divine Kathak, and the dance of the Gods.