So this short tale is the tale of my life, which has been a humble life, but not - I think - an entirely wasted one. I was born on a full moon night to the daughter of a shoe maker, and a man who collected cow dung. We were of the lowest caste, but proud people, and with the respect of God in our hearts. Those were dark days, because India was at war with itself. All through our streets Hindus and Muslims raged at each other, and Sikhs raged at those who crossed them, and the British did little to help so anxious were they to leave.
During those dark times my parents hid me in a scrap of silk, their most precious posession, and fed me natural buffalo curds. They smeared me forehead with natural incense sticks ash, which is considered sacred in our country, and burnt homemade dhoop under my nose to keep away the insects.
On the third night after my birth, a band of Sikh mercenaries stormed the house, anxious for blood since their own village had been attacked and pillaged only earlier that night. My parents knew these men and had lived alongside them for many years. But that did nothing to assuage the blood lust in these men’s eyes, nor the sadness which motivated their actions. They tried to take from my mother’s arms and she cursed them and fought them and prevented even the strongest of them from seizing me. Finally my father threw some natural aromatherapy oil into the eyes of the leader, who let out a roar that set birds whirring into the sky and screamed to God to alleviate his stinging vision.
After that things turned peaceful. My mother bathed the man’s wounds in peppermint, sandalwood and citronella, and the Sikh soldiers apologised for their bad behaviour and prostrated themselves in forgiveness for the wrongs they had done to my parents house and to God. My father lit some nag champa, and then rolled some home made smokes for all the Sikhs to enjoy. And so there was a brief window of peace in that otherwise horrible era, when two sides found a moment of reciprocity, while the blue sky turned black then pale with the coming morning, and the Indian sun turned golden more innocently than the blood that had been spilled under its pale fire.
