And all things hang on me as precious gems upon a string.
—Bhagavad Gita

The springy kusha matting beneath her battered body felt so wonderful that when she awoke the next morning, Ishvari burst into a torrent of grateful tears. No, she had not dreamed the ghastly events of last night—death had been staring her in the face when the leopard had arrived in a blur of speed, transporting Maruti and herself from the dreary fringes of Devikota to the airy stone temple she had first set eyes upon as a pariah child. She lay still for long moments, mentally confronting the horrors of her recent past; only the gods could explain why she had been brought back to her earliest sanctuary when so many better souls had passed on. A vivid image of the big...

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