Mamta’s apartment, nestled on the sixth floor of a newly erected sixteen-story building, had been her sanctuary for the past six solitary months. She stood on her balcony with a cup of chamomile tea watching the frenzied dance of vehicles below. The steam from her tea mingled with the cool night air, tracing wisps against the weariness etched beneath her eyes. It was soothing – the warmth – but at the same time it reminded her how she had aged all of a sudden due to the stress and depression. It was a routine she’d grown accustomed to, a bittersweet reminder of the life she once shared with her partner, Paul Phillip.
Until six months ago, she would stand there waiting for Paul to ring the doorbell. Tonight, however, she was standing there waiting for something else to ring – her iPhone. After that chance encounter with Father Simon, Mamta had made up her decision. She had decided that she would not let her mind sink further into depression – whatever had to happen had already happened. It was time to move on.
The last three years had been traumatic, beginning with the pandemic, which had dented her morale, and culminating with the abortion, which had shattered her desire to exist. What am I even doing with my life? Why am I even alive? The questions had lingered in her mind echoing her inner turmoil. But tonight, amidst the flickering city lights, a simpler query surfaced – Am I on the right path? Was there a sign, any sign, to guide me?
In that moment of uncertainty, her iPhone broke the silence with its insistent ring. She rushed inside. Navigating past the sleek grey velvet sofas that adorned her living space, Mamta made her way to the dining table where her MacBook lay open, its screen illuminated in anticipation. Setting down her half-drained cup of tea, a solitary comfort in the face of uncertainty, she accepted the call and transferred it to the MacBook. The video call got connected, and the broadcast from Becky’s camera appeared on the FaceTime app on the MacBook’s screen.
“Hey there, Mamta!” Becky’s voice, tinged with a blend of warmth and urgency, greeted her through the screen. Mamta’s lips curved into a hesitant smile, a flicker of relief at the sight of her friend amidst the tumult of her thoughts.
‘Hi, Becky,’ Mamta replied, her tone laced with a hint of gratitude. It had been too long since their last face-to-face conversation, and Mamta welcomed the opportunity to reconnect even though it was virtual.
“I’m sorry, dear,” Becky continued, her words tumbling forth in a rush of explanation, “I was in the midst of a draining meeting when you called. I wanted to make sure I was in the right frame of mind before we spoke.”
Mamta offered a gentle nod of understanding, her own concerns momentarily eclipsed by Becky’s earnestness.
“But I’m glad you decided to call,” Becky pressed on, her enthusiasm palpable even through the screen. “You’re calling to tell me you’re in, right?”
Mamta nodded again, a silent affirmation of her commitment.
Becky’s excitement was palpable, her words tumbling forth with a sense of urgency that matched the rhythm of New York City itself. “Cool,” she exclaimed, her voice infused with energy, “Let me get straight to the point because I have another meeting with the editors in” – she checked her watch – “another ten minutes”.
“Okay.”
“So Span is doing a special issue in association with Inspire International for August 2024,” Becky continued, her tone brimming with anticipation, “marking the thirty-third anniversary of the International Day of the World’s Indigenous Peoples.”
Mamta leaned in, her interest piqued by the prospect of such a significant project.
“The entire issue will be about the indigenous peoples from various parts of the world,” Becky elaborated, her words painting a vivid picture of the scope of the endeavour, “about how they are living, what’s their history, how they have preserved their identity, their religious beliefs, what are the big threats to these indigenous communities, and most importantly – what are the conditions of their womenfolk.”
Becky paused, removing her glasses to meet Mamta’s gaze through the video stream.
“I wanted you to do the story from northern India, and that is exactly why I contacted you last week, and have been eating your head since then.”
“I’m listening,”
“There is a small ethnic group of people living in the foothills of the Terai region in northern India. They are called Aturas,” Becky explained, her tone tinged with a sense of urgency.
“You mean Asura?” Mamta questioned, her brow furrowing slightly.
“Atura, not Asura. Look, I might be pronouncing it incorrectly, but I am sure the name I heard in the meeting was Atura.” Becky pulled out a page from her desk and displayed it in front of the camera. “Here,” she said, pointing to the text, “It is Atura. They have been there for a very long time and have withstood years of urban interventions in the name of reforms, encroachment, assimilations and conversions. Almost all of them live in a hamlet on the outskirts of a village called,” Becky read from the same page, “Birpoor.”
“Birpoor,” Mamta repeated softly.
“Have you heard of the place?” Becky asked, keeping the paper aside.
The name was surely familiar, but Mamta could not place it. She shook her head.
“That’s okay. Birpoor is a village situated in the dense Kalibann forest outside the town of Lakhanganj. The Aturas, its inhabitants, hold reverence for a forest deity and are steeped in beliefs of black magic and witchcraft. Nowadays, most of them toil as labourers in Lakhanganj. The women of this community endure a life of confinement, lacking in freedom and a voice of their own. Edgar Thurston has mentioned very little in his journals, but otherwise, there’s scant information out there about this particular community, and we would like to have you on board to explore and bring a heart-warming and-slash-or ground-breaking story that will embrace Span’s August edition.”
Just then someone entered Becky’s room. Mamta could tell because Becky was looking towards the door and nodding as if responding to someone. It must be for the meeting she mentioned at the beginning of the call. The editor of Span magazine checked her watch again and then got back to Mamta on the video call, “So, what is it? You in?”
“Well, it’s been a while, and you are trusting me with a big story.”
“I know, and I am absolutely confident that you will get me the cover story. Trust me when I say that I am rooting for you.”
Mamta took a deep breath. She pondered the prospect. She was grateful to have someone who believed in her, and although it was a challenge she hadn’t faced before, she was determined to make it through.
Excerpted with permission from Dakini, K Hari Kumar, HarperCollins India.
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