Pathways in Punjabi

“You hold the way of your world in the palm of your hand,” calls palm reader Pareek over his shoulder, his thick Indian accent following him as we thread through the back alleyways of a bazaar. His oversized jandals suck to his feet and scuff over the dirt and menagerie of animals on the street as we walk. Mani, my Punjabi-to-English translator follows, and I am behind, peering into Indian lives through cracks between doors and walls. Catching glimpses of people dying cotton, sewing silk, making musical instruments, chanting and praying. The scent of sandalwood on spice on concrete sifts through the gaps and snapshots I see from their lives. Flashed of jades, mustards, pumpkins, pinks. Shrines and lights and round, almond eyes.
We squeeze into the small door that is Pareek’s dimly lit house, the bright walls lined with certificates and Shiva shrines, maps of star constellations draped with generous strings of carnations. Not an entirely unfamiliar to the way we dressed up our dingy lounge in our student flat back home. The outstretched arms of his wife lays a kitsch dupatta around my neck, smiling, thank you for coming, we are honoured you are here. I feel like a garish Christmas tree dressed up for Easter.
Before guru Pareek can read my palm, we must eat. We must eat rounds of chapatti and saag and sahi paneer, chai and sweet treats. I must meet the family; his wife, his mother, their daughters and his grandmother. This entire family clambers around each other, making tea and handing around food and offerings to the divinities while we sat in awe of their choreographed chaos.
After the fifth course and a pile of paneer in my belly, Pareek declares it is ‘time’. The room clears, yet the incense burrows thicker and Pareek’s dark hand take my right palm. Together, we look like a Kinder Surprise.
I don’t know what I expected to hear, but it certainly isn’t what I am told. Words tumble out of his mouth in broken Punjabi that do not swallow easily. The haze from the smoke fills my throat, all thick and heavy with perfume.
“But is there anything good?” I ask.
Pareek stops at my Saturn line, looks at my swelling eyes and says,
“Oh Bel, you do not worry. You cannot argue with the stars. You cannot change them. All you can do is change the place from which you see them.”
“Can I see them from here?”
“These lines bring you here so I can show you how.”