Last night she lay on her bed with a curly-haired doll close to her chest. She was looking at the clock hanging over the door. Only half an hour was left —her life’s digit would turn from thirteen to fourteen, a change that felt like a heavy blow to the fragile wings of her hopes.
In the morning, her mother’s joyous voice woke her. The home was filled with unusual visitors, and she heard the low music of dholki. Her mother gently took the doll from her hands and slipped bangles onto her wrists. She thought it was a gift from her mother for the addition of one new digit in her life. She was bathed quickly, and a bright paste of yellow turmeric was put on her face.
The house kept filling with the new, unexpected visitors. She was kept in the corner of a dark room under the red veil, along with three elderly women. From time to time, other women would arrive, circle rupees over her head, and hand them to the waiting singer. Across the room, her youngest sister was sitting on the bench in new clothes, playing with her curly haired doll. She wanted to take the doll back, but the woman sitting beside her forbade it.
As the day went on, the house grew even more crowded. In the evening, she was lifted into a brand-new car and sent away with strangers. Her eyes filled with questions—perhaps they were her on a trip. But why was her mother not going with her? Why was my sister left at home?
After two hours, she was taken into a room decorated with red flowers. It had a larger bed than the bed inside her own house. She noticed another pillow on the bed. She thought perhaps it was for her doll.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. An old man walked into the room and he locked it.