Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

212 ◆ Crab Orchard Review
Nishta J. Mehra
the criteria. Unlike my turn playing Mary, this wasn’t a day I spent
years anticipating—it was a duty, the significance of which I only
vaguely understood and also resented.
I remember myself standing in the ladies’ room of that church
basement, in a pool of light cast by the small rectangular window
cut into the top of the wall. My mother stood in front of me with two
opened safety pins in her mouth and a pile of bright red fabric curled
onto the floor in front of her. Holding one end of the slippery stuff, she
pleated it lengthwise, a familiar motion I have inherited, a game I play
with scarves and blankets. She worked the fabric into even folds like
an accordion, pinned it all together, then tucked the top part into the
waistband of my petticoat. The remaining length was wrapped around
the back of my waist and brought up over my shoulder, where it fanned
out over my right shoulder to cover the front of the cropped, half-sleeved
blouse I wore. That was my first sari. I did not think it looked right on
me, all that red.
The conch shell blew, a hard gust of effort by the small woman
who coaxed out its sound. My mother took me by the hand and led
me past the men, women, and children who sat cross-legged on the
ground, where colorful cloth was draped to cushion the impact of
smooth, cold concrete. I felt everyone watching me; felt the heat from
their bodies and the fire my mother and I were walking toward. The
priest prepared this havan in a makeshift fire pit of concrete blocks,
feeding its swirling flames in accordance with Vedic ritual. Agni, the
god of fire, must be invoked and appeased at the start of any puja, or
ceremony, and kept alive the entire way through.
Momma came to a stop at the head of the crowd. The priest, sweat
running down his bare chest, walked over to meet us. He is the father of
Amrita, the same girl who will stand next to me as Joseph in a handful
of years. The man is an obstetrician by trade, but a priest by birth. For
centuries, families like his, from the Brahmin or priestly caste, have kept
alive the rituals and beliefs of my religion, just as Dr. Dirghangi was
doing then in the fellowship hall of a Baptist church in Memphis. He
brought his palms together in front of his chest and inclined his head in
my mother’s direction to acknowledge the gift she was giving in the form
of her child. She reciprocated the gesture, then nudged me forward.
But I was reluctant, scared of doing something wrong, of messing
it up. I felt foolish for not asking beforehand what the ceremony would
entail, for not paying better attention in years past. Amrita’s father took
his seat right next to the havan and indicated a space directly across