For two weeks, nothing happened. The air remained nippy, and the mist refused to lift. The village children continued to shiver, and the trees stood like skeleton silhouettes against the grey sky. Rohan’s faith began to waver. He felt foolish, ringing a bell at a pot of dirt.
Rohan ran into the house. "Dadi! The shoot! It’s up! And listen—the Koel is back!"
One morning, Rohan’s grandmother, a woman who spoke in proverbs and smelled of jasmine oil, handed him a small clay pot. Inside, nestled in dark soil, was a single, shriveled bulb of a Rajnigandha (Tuberose).
