At Dashain, the ones who light the lamps never sit in their glow

In my mother’s house, Dashain did not begin with the first jamara sprouts or the slaughter of the goat. It began at 3:40 a.m., with the soft clink of a steel pot in the dark kitchen.

She was always awake before the house was. By the time the rest of us stirred, the floor was already swept and smeared with cow dung and red clay; the puja thali gleamed; and the tika was mixed with rice, curd, and vermilion, each in its proper place. We woke to a festival that seemed to have arrived on its own, like weather.