We sat on the balcony, my parents and I. The house lay in darkness, only moonlight tracing the cold stone floor and the vines of an overgrown plant I’d first found as a broken stem in the parking lot. We were here for a yearly ritual: On the full moon night of Ashwini, whoever threads a needle by moonlight alone will be blessed by the gods. My mother tried thrice and sighed, “It’s been a long time.” My father tried twice and gave up. I tried once and the thread slipped through. If only I also knew how to sew.
Vani Aadhya is a 1998 born, writing through the mystical in and around us. Her words have appeared in Prosetrics, In Short, and Five Minutes. X: @vaniadyawrites