“You are the blessed of Danteshwari!” Ramita stares at me now silently with an expression somewhere between horror and awe.
“How did you know?” I whisper. My voice rises and cracks as I say, “Tell me what’s happening, Ramita!”
My good friend opens her mouth and then closes it. She lowers her head and I can see that she is shaking. “This cannot be. How can you…” Ramita lifts her head, her dark eyes now ablaze. “How is this possible, Christine. You are American. This should not be happening. These dreams — they are not for you.”
I reach out and take hold of her wrists, gripping them tightly. I can barely keep myself under control as I whisper to her, “How did you know those words? How can you know what I’ve been dreaming?”
Ramita stares at me for a long time. Finally she whispers back, “Because, Christine. I too am having those dreams.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “That is not possible. No one shares their dreams.”
Ramita gives me a tentative smile. “They do, my dear, if the dreams are of a divine origin. Danteshwari sends us these dreams.”
“Danteshwari?” I again shake my head. It doesn’t make sense. I recognized the name from the time of my first dream, it is a local deity. Many miles outside the district capital, Jagdalpur, there is a famous temple dedicated to Danteshwari and there is an annual celebration of her — she is a female and motherly aspect of the Hindu Gods. Despite of my love of this place and my acknowledgement and acceptance of their faith, I find myself suddenly confronted with the truth that I never really accepted that there could be other gods within the world.
Ramita puts a finger to my lips and shushes me. “Hush now, Christine. We must not speak of it further. I must consult Naija, she will know what to do.”
Naija is an old woman in the village — perhaps the oldest woman in the village, although nobody knew her true age. She is the local midwife and is considered a wise woman, maybe even a holy woman. In truth, she might be the most influential person in the village, maybe within the whole region. She has an incredible amount of influence. It was only when she brought her great, great granddaughter to my school that others in the village warmed to it and made it a success. Every Sunday, she sits on the front row in our little church and listens intently to Joseph’s sermons, a slightly perplexed expression on her face as she strives to make sense of our faith. I cannot blame her, it doesn’t always make sense to me.
Standing up, Ramita reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “Do not worry, Christine. I am sure Naija will know what to do. I will come see you later this evening. Everything will be alright.”
I am still dumbfounded, but just hearing my good friend speak those words gives me comfort. I watch her walk away and I gather up my things and walk home. As I step into the house, I can smell the aroma of a casserole. Following the smell, I see that the dining room table is set for two. In the kitchen, I find Jeff busy washing dishes.
“Mother! I wanted to surprise you!” he says, bounding over to hug me. He tells me his Dad has gone to the next village over to lead a prayer group meeting this evening and won’t be back till late, so he decided to make me dinner as a surprise.
“Well, I guess you did, honey!” I reply. I shiver a little as my son wraps his strong arms around me and pulls me to him. I feel my breasts pillow out against his bare chest and I imagine I am blushing as I feel my thick nipples harden, the long bumps pressing against my bra and blouse, aching to touch male skin. For a moment I struggle with the urge to press my lips against his as my vagina begins to burn with lust. I control myself and peck him on the check, content for the moment of just being in a handsome young man’s embrace.
Jeff helps me with my bags and tells me of his day. I sit at the table and listen to my son ramble on about things, especially about his and Bimal’s plans for starting a farm. As he talks, I can’t help but admire his young body. He is tall and well muscled and beautiful and again I can’t help but compare his body to that of my dream lover. My panties become sodden and I am appalled to find myself unconsciously dropping my hands into my lap to rub against my slacks.
Jeff and I eat and then he is off to run about with Bimal, no doubt to flirt with the many pretty young girls of our village. I sit on the living room and try and read scripture, seeking comfort in God’s words, but not finding them tonight. I pray for help and deliverance for my evil thoughts. I am on my knees when there is a knock at the front door and I hear Ramita call out, “Christine, are you here. May we visit please, with you?”
I struggle to my feet and at the door am surprised to see Ramita and the old holy woman with her. In all the years, we have been here, Naija has never visited us. “Please come in,” I say. The woman has the history of countless decades etched on her face. Her eyes are a brilliant green and as she enters she studies me with an uncomfortable intensity.
Inside, we all sit and there is an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Ramita begins, “I have spoken to Naija about your dreams and how I cannot imagine how this has happened. This thing that is happening, should not be happening to you, it is…”
Naija holds up a hand for silence and in a raspy, ancient voice, says, “Hush, daughter. You are smart and educated in the matters of the world, but of the province of the divine, you should not speak.” Naija stands up and shuffles over to me. She holds out her hands and I give her mine. Her grip is incredibly firm for someone so old.
“Since times so ancient, they have fallen out of memory, there has been a pact between our goddess, Danteshwari and this village. Once every generation, she marks the worthy women who have lost their husbands to receive her blessings. That holy time has come again.” The old woman glances over at Ramita. “Ramita is one who is so blessed. Ten years she has been a widow, her husband tragically lost.”
I nod. I know this. Ramita’s husband had been killed in a train wreck several years ago, leaving Ramita a widow with two children, her oldest Bimal and a younger daughter.