As a child I never stopped to question why it was that my mother fasted and prayed once a year for God to give long life to my father and why my father never did the same for her. If, at that age, I had asked my mother this question, I am sure her answer would have been, ‘Because that is the way it is.’

In India, life is set up to follow certain preearranged patterns. No one knows exactly who decided on these patterns or when they were decided upon. But somewhere, sometime, it was decided that married Hindu women would set aside a day to pray for their husbands. The day, called Karvachauth, would be in the autumn, on the fourth day of the waning moon. So, ever since anybody can remember, married women have been following this pattern without questioning it. I know that in the case of my mother, she followed it partly because tradition demanded it, partly because she loved the fuss and details of religious ceremonies – but mainly because she adored my father and was not going to take any chances on his health and longevity!

At night we all slept in a row on a verandah which faced the rose and jasmine garden. Even though we slept on beds next to each other, we were really quite isolated, as each bed was enshrouded by a large, white mosquito net, held up by four bamboo poles. My father slept at one end, with my mother next to him, then my baby sister, me and my two older sisters. I did have two older brothers as well, but at the age of seven, they were shady figures, who seemed always to be away at a distant school or on fishing trips.

Since married women were supposed to fast from sunrise, my mother would set the alarm for four o’clock in the morning. This would allow her to get a quick bite to eat before sunrise. She was perfectly willing to follow the required rules about fasting and praying on the day of Karvachauth itself – but no rule said that she couldn’t spend the last minute of the previous day eating all she needed to sustain her! As the alarm went off, my father would stir and grumble. He would then pull the quilt over his head and go back to sleep. My mother would emerge from her mosquito net, awaken any of her daughters who had so requested, and begin to brush her teeth vigorously with a twig from a neem tree which she always kept at a nearby table. My sisters and I were awakened because we insisted upon it. We wanted to watch every bit of the ritual connected with this special day. My mother, with her daughters following behind her like ducklings, would go to the pantry where food had been left warming for her from the previous night. As my mother ate some sauced potatoes and deep-fried breads we would sit around and watch her. Every now and then she would pop a bit of food from her plate into our mouths. This made us feel as if we were really participating. Perhaps at this strange hour between night and day my mother was quietly passing on a ‘pattern’ or a tradition from her generation to ours.

We were sent off to bed again and awakened just in time for school. My mother would braid our well-oiled hair and secure the braids with freshly ironed ribbons. Once we had breakfasted, we were packed off to school with khaki sun hats on our heads and leather school-bags in our hands. The school day would actually be quite normal but it felt special. I would run around whispering to the whole class, ‘My mother is fasting today, you know. It’s Karvachauth. It’s very important that she fasts from sunrise until the first appearance of the moon. Otherwise my father will DIE.’ Since most of the class was Christian, this bit of information would both alarm and impress them. The whole idea was to get even with my classmates for the large Easter eggs they brought in annually, as well as for the pretty pastel holy pictures which they traded, buying and selling during every break between classes.

The rest of the school day was spent daydreaming – imagining my mother’s activities … now, with her sari tucked between her legs, she must be standing in the kitchen frying those sweet, wholewheat fritters! Since my sisters found them too doughy and sticky, I could look forward to eating their share as well! Bell after bell would ring at school, arithmetic books were exchanged for geography books, but my mind was at home.

By the time we got home from school and changed from our sweaty navy-blue tunics, white socks and tightly laced black shoes into loose Indian dresses and open sandals, my mother would be putting the finishing touches to the Prayer Room – fresh flowers in the brass vases, straw mats on the floor and special little ‘Karva’ clay pots with lids and spouts filled with water, with the fresh fritters sitting on their lids.

While we waited for the moon to appear, my father would retire to the living room, turn on the radio and listen to news of the Second World War over the BBC World Service. His wife and daughters would go into the Prayer Room and begin praying for his health and long life.

We would all sit cross-legged on the mats, the candles and oil lamps would be lit and the prayers would begin. The first and best part was The Story.