Through the window, the water in the paddy field shimmers like beaten silver. She awakes before dawn while her mother still sleeps. In the silence that follows, the creek sings no lullaby, only grumbling over the polished pebbles. but just then it is cut off abruptly, as though a cobra has snuck up on it. The bird's cry can go on for hours, depriving them of sleep. It sees the lagoon in front and the creek and the paddy field behind. Soon she hears her mother's sniffles change to steady breathing, then to the softest of snores, which in the girl's mind seem to impose order on the scattered sounds of the night, from the wooden walls exhaling the day's heat to the scuffing sound of the dog in the sandy courtyard outside.Ī brainfever bird calls out: Kezhekketha? Kezhekketha? Which way is east? Which way is east? She imagines the bird looking down at the clearing where the rectangular thatched roof squats over their house. "After that, God willing, it gets better." "The saddest day of a girl's life is the day of her wedding," her mother says. Mother and daughter lie on the mat, their wet cheeks glued together. She is twelve years old, and she will be married in the morning. Reprinted with the permission of the publisher, Grove Press, an imprint of Grove Atlantic, Inc. Excerpted from The Covenant of Water © 2023 by Abraham Verghese.
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