EXCERPT

Excerpt One From Chapter 1: The Journey

The wall stood, though it seemed to teeter on the edge of collapse.

Inside, the afternoon light surrendered to a cooler, ancient gloom. Hundreds of frescoes blanketed every wall, floor to ceiling—colors faded, but stories fiercely intact.

I pressed my hand to the plaster, feeling the chill—ancient and unyielding—seep into my skin. Above me, Guru Nanak Dev Ji gazed out from the fresco: seated, serene, encircled by his followers. His eyes radiated patience, unchanged for over two centuries. Around him, ochre faded into sand, deep blue dissolved into grey, yet his expression endured. He watched. He waited.

Then a small piece of blue pigment loosened from the wall and fell into my open palm. I stood very still. It weighed almost nothing. It was the blue of a summer sky at a particular hour—the kind of blue that takes decades to make and seconds to lose. I thought of the artists who had mixed that color, climbed scaffolding, and pressed pigment to wet plaster in a room that smelled of lime and devotion. I thought of everything that had held it in place: monsoons survived, Partition outlasted, decades of political indifference endured. Some things are not meant to outlast the hands that made them. But they should not have to end in yours.

I had returned to Pothi Mala searching for what was left. Instead, I discovered what was slipping away.

Excerpt Two From Chapter 5: In the Shadow of the Saints

I would sit nearby and wait patiently for Rita to finish her chores before we could play. Her tasks unfolded in a familiar rhythm, almost always in the same order. First, she swept her cottage's courtyard with a small bamboo broom, her movements steady and precise, the dust rising in soft spirals around her feet. Then she turned to the pile of utensils stacked unorderly in a corner.

Squatting on a small wooden seat, she picked up each dish, scrubbed it with a soapy cloth, then rinsed it under the tap. The metal clinked softly in her hands, a sound I came to associate with our time together. One by one, the steel plates and cups — now gleaming — were arranged in a large bamboo basket to dry.

"Five more to go," I would whisper to myself, counting down with a growing smile as I imagined the games waiting just beyond the chores. Only when the last drop of water slid off the final dish would Rita finally look up, her face brightening with the quiet relief of a child momentarily freed.

She would rise, wash her hands, and untie the knot in her kameez — a small gesture that felt like the loosening of the day's burdens. Our excitement would begin to overflow. Rita would flash a broad, satisfied smile and say simply, "Let's go."

Moments later, we'd be racing into the courtyard, our laughter echoing through the same space that had held her afternoon's labor.

Holiness and injustice lived side by side in that courtyard — one sung, one silenced.

Excerpt Three From Chapter 14: The Realm of Diaspora

At the New Delhi airport, I moved through the motions of departure in a daze, my body present but my spirit lagging somewhere behind — in a hospital room, beside my father's bed.

At the immigration counter, the officer didn't look up as he asked for my passport.

"What was the purpose of your visit?" His voice was flat, mechanical, as though the question had been asked a thousand times before.

In a low voice, I replied, "My father had a stroke and was hospitalized."

He stamped my passport without pause, slid it back across the counter, and waved for the next passenger. The exchange lasted only seconds, yet it seemed to stretch into eternity. Around me, the airport pulsed with its usual rhythm. The world moved on, efficient and unshaken, while mine had quietly changed forever.

Hours later, I landed in San Francisco. At the U.S. immigration checkpoint, I presented my passport again. The officer glanced up, his tone warm.

"Good evening. How are you today?"

"I'm okay," I managed, my voice heavy with fatigue and loss.

He scanned my documents and asked, "What was the reason for your trip?"

"My father had a stroke and was hospitalized," I said again.

He looked up and met my eyes. "And how's your dad doing now?"

The kindness in his voice caught me off guard. I swallowed hard. "He passed away."

Without wasting a breath, he replied, "I'm so sorry."

Then, as he handed me back my passport, he added, "Welcome back home, ma'am."

Those three words echoed in my mind long after I walked away. Such a simple phrase, yet it pierced something deep within me. For the first time since my father's passing, I felt seen. His gentle acknowledgment reminded me that home isn't just a place. It's a feeling.