i.
the first night passes, slipping away from my notice, but I have never met a better herald of fall.
ii-iv.
the leaves shiver, drawing close to their branches. I shiver with them and break out my leather jackets and scarves. the trees are on fire; so is my hearth. we take the warmth from summer and carry it inside like a candle, shielding it from the wind.
v.
panchami, my cousin tells me from thousands of miles away. it is the one time of year our weathers match.
vi, vii.
I forget, again, but something else within me does not; the smell of incense and clove lies thick in my dreams even before it pervades my house.
viii.
my mom cooks. my grandmother cooks. cardamom and clove and cinnamon, kheer and saffron milk, glistening fried papad and puri. it’s ashtami, the eighth night, and it feels as real as a beginning.
iv.
tonight is the ninth night; I think of Rama tiring over his battle, chakras broken, arrows bent. it is the night of hope; we know tomorrow he will win, and navratri is the night we are reminded of diwali, the homecoming, the day of defying the waning sunlight with electricity and candles and battery-powered tea lights. but that is weeks off, yet. today we sing. there was a fable I read when I was too young to understand it; a king found the greatest singer in the world lived not as a performer, but instead as an ascetic, singing only for God. my voice, my mother’s voice, my sister’s, my father’s, combine into one this night in prayers in a language I don’t truly understand but know, deep within. my lips stumble clumsily over the syllables, but my voice is surer and clearer than it will ever be otherwise. navratri is the night of hope; the darkest night before the sunrise, the night you truly realize how the sun is slipping away into winter. we create hope to warm us; the low-burning incense, the flame we circle with our hands, the heat of the kitchen and its spice, the love binding a family separated by two continents and an ocean. tonight, I can believe in God.
x.
dasra. Today our house fills with warmth and laughter of the family we have found here; my mother’s cooking can be eaten and our pumpkin spice candle can finally be lit. It is the day of celebration; the darkness has been defeated, and we take our bright hope with us even as we journey into the night of winter. autumn is remarkable because we defy death with our hope and love, and I can have faith in this endless warmth to last me until spring.