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I’m at my kitchen window, admiring the charming tableau on the back lawn. It’s dusk. Earlier today, Radha helped Jay and me light hundreds ofdiyasaround our back garden for the wedding ceremony. The tiny flames flicker, making sequins and gold threads sparkle on the elegant clothes of the wedding guests.

It’s not every day that a Hindu and a Muslim get married; Malik and Nimmi decided to have a civil ceremony much as Jay and I did six years ago. The magistrate who officiated has already come and gone, and now the family and guests are celebrating and waiting for the feast.

Nimmi chose to wear her tribal finery as a way of honoring her heritage. The gold necklace Malik bought from Moti-Lal in Jaipur is around her neck. When I was preparing to apply her henna yesterday, Nimmi showed me that she’d added the amulet of Shiva to the chain. “It was Dev’s,” she told me, smiling, as if the memory now brings her joy instead of sorrow. I knew then that I would paint the image of the blue god—both a creator and a destroyer—on her left palm and, on the other, the wordom, similar to the one on Shiva’s right hand.

As soon as she saw what I’d painted, Nimmi said, “I will take good care of Malik.” I straightened up then and looked her in the eye. There was a time I might have doubted this union, but that time had passed. I cupped her cheek in my free palm, and she’d leaned against it.

Two novices from the convent have come for the celebration. Nimmi is showing them the sandalwood sapling I’ve been trying to grow here in the cooler Himalayan climate. No doubt she’s explaining to them how she uprooted it from the Healing Garden and transplanted it in this sunnier spot at the edge of my backyard garden. The sapling is faring better here; the slight increase in temperature seems to have given it new life. When it’s old enough to produce its red seeds, Nimmi and I will grind them, mix them with clove oil, and use them to soothe boils and inflammations for the patients at the Community Clinic.

These young nuns have grown fond of Nimmi and now visit the Healing Garden once a week to learn how to grow the same plants at their convent. They are the first herbal practitioners we’ve taught in our new business!

Nimmi looks up at my kitchen window just then, as if she knows I’m watching. She flashes a brilliant smile at me. I return it.

Malik, handsome in the charcoal-gray suit he’s had tailored for the occasion, is holding baby Chullu and laughing at something my brother-in-law Pierre is telling him. Radha is with them, under the Himalayan pear tree; they make a pretty threesome. My sister, always crazy for babies, reaches for Chullu, and Malik hands him over. The boy tries to snatch the cluster of red primula from Radha’s topknot, but she quickly grabs his hand and pretends to gnaw it. Chullu cackles with delight.

This morning, when Radha and I were walking with her daughters, Asha and Shanti, I pulled Kanta’s latest letter from my pocket and showed the envelope to her. I raised my eyebrows to form the silent question I ask every time I see Radha. The crease between her brows told me she’s not ready.

I patted her arm and returned the letter to my pocket. Someday, when the time is right, she’ll let me know she wants to see the photos of Nikhil—the ones that Kanta sends me regularly and that I have been saving. Radha made a decision some time ago that was right for her and for Niki, the only one shecouldmake at the time. But to deal with the immense loss she felt from giving up her baby boy, she had to cut all ties. She hasn’t seen Nikhil since he was four months old, the night she came to me, heartbroken. Having finally realized that as much as she loved him, she couldn’t care for him on her own and decided to allow Kanta and Manu, still yearning for a child, to adopt him.

Mysaasused to say:If it doesn’t bend as a sapling, will it bend as a tree?But I hold out hope. I know the day will come when Radha realizes that her heart can now survive the pain. She’s still only twenty-five; there’s time yet.

I take a tray of glasses filled withaam pannafrom the kitchen out onto the lawn and set them on the outdoor table with the other dishes we’ve prepared. Chickentikka masala.Lauki ki subji, palak paneer. Baingan bharta.Aloo gobi subji.There’s cashew pilaf,puriandaloo parantha. For dessert, we havesemai ki kheerandgulab jamun.

Rekha and Shanti run up to me. Rekha is wearing the little gold studs Malik gave her. The girls are both four years old and have been inseparable since they met yesterday, when Radha’s family arrived for the wedding from France. The girls tell me they’ve been trying to coax Madho Singh, who is muttering in his cage, to join us for the celebration.

“Tante, can you help,s’il te plait?” Shanti asks. Radha’s daughters transition easily between English, French and Hindi. My sister has been speaking Hindi to them since before they were born.

Shanti has yellow-brown eyes like Pierre, but her willfulness is all Radha. Every few months, my sister will phone to tell me she’s doing battle with Shanti. I can only smile, remembering all the challenges Radha presented me when she was thirteen. Shanti is only four, which means Radha has many battles ahead of her!

I should call the guests to the table, but I decide to indulge the girls. “Why don’t you ask your father to give you both a helicopter ride?” I say to Shanti now.

The girls turn to each other, eager with anticipation. They squeal delightedly and bound like rabbits toward their target at the far end of the garden. Shanti runs into Pierre from behind, almost knocking him over. I watch the girls delivering their demands as Pierre listens. Then he puts a question to them. Reluctantly, Shanti points to Rekha. Pierre picks up Rekha, then walks to the center of the lawn. Holding on to her hands, he spins her around, twirling her faster and faster. Her hair lifts and falls, lifts and falls. Bubbles of laughter fill the air.

“My turn!” Shanti shouts, raising her arms. Pierre sets Rekha down, takes hold of Shanti’s hands, then lifts her into the air.

I catch Malik gazing lovingly at Nimmi. As if he’d sent a silent signal, she turns to him, offering a private smile.

I walk to Jay, who is holding Radha’s younger daughter, Asha. At two years old she is besotted with him, and he with her. Whenever he sees her waddling toward him on her chunky legs, the lines around his eyes crinkle with pleasure.

My husband kisses my forehead. I wrap my arms around both him and little Asha. She tries to throw off my embrace, wanting all of Jay’s attention for herself. I poke her little belly, which, as always, makes her giggle.

I look around the garden, lush and magical, and see all I’ve nurtured: Malik and Radha, as dear to me as my own life. Their spouses and their children. Two generations of possibilities, of hope, surrounded by the blue evening, surrounded by us.